


yebisu (葛城 ミサト)

by slexenskee (Sambomaster)



Series: Forever Future Funk [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Divorce, Future Harry is god, Kids, M/M, Master of Death Harry Potter, OP!Harry, and tries so hard to be a good parent anyway, why do i write sad things
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-10-31
Updated: 2018-08-24
Packaged: 2018-08-28 06:40:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 75,332
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8435428
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sambomaster/pseuds/slexenskee
Summary: For the record, Harry is only here for his time-travelling kids. Voldemort can fuck off.





	1. destiny あなたはすれ違う

**Author's Note:**

> I feel like everyone has their own head canon with future kids involved. This one is mine lols. The oddly angsty future reality of a Harry who found love, lost it, and at some point has to deal with alimony and being death at the same time?

For the record, Harry is only here for his time-traveling kids. Voldemort can fuck off.

 

Meanwhile, Saiph decides now is as good a time as any to try and repair his parent’s relationship, despite the fact that they haven’t even gotten into a relationship yet, let alone signed divorce papers.

 

-

AUGUST, 1996

 

Only eleven he may be, but Saiph Asterion Potter was already well aware that he was perhaps the unluckiest person on Earth. It was that Potter unluckiness, and it appeared he was the only one of his siblings to inherit it.

 

It wasn’t even middle-child syndrome - although if he was being honest he could admit a lot of his current preteen angst probably stemmed from that - as much as it was his general existence. Maybe he was born under a cursed star? Maybe the star he was named after was actually a Death Star. Maybe his father was secretly Darth Vader. No, that couldn’t be right. Even Luke Skywalker’s luck was better than his own. On the subject of his father, he dreaded to think what the man would have to say about his current predicament. Lord Voldemort was a lot of things; patient was not one of them.

 

Personal shortcomings aside, his father was quickly becoming the only available option for help, and that was saying something, because Saiph was a moody preteen and the last thing he wanted to do was confront his latent daddy issues or admit to still needing his father’s help with anything. Which unfortunately he did. Desperately. He was eleven and in his eyes that was practically adulthood, so he didn't need anyone's help anymore. However it was times like this that he was sorely reminded just how inadequate an age it really was.

 

But he was a Slytherin, dammit. He should be able to solve this himself.

 

In his defense though, he had never heard of anyone - Slytherin or no - time traveling themselves over two decades into the past.

 

“Freaking out is not going to be helpful,” he reminded himself through gritted teeth. If he thought about it too hard, he might have a panic attack. Or worse, start crying. Even Cassi didn’t cry, and she was the baby!

 

Okay, so despite the fact that asking his father was the most logical and straightforward way to solve this predicament, he was tabling that for last. He supposed he could try to find a way out of this by himself, but realistically that was a stretch. He didn’t even think the vast and questionable Black libraries had any books on time travel, and they certainly didn’t teach it in Hogwart’s first year curriculum.

 

But they did study it in the Ministry.

 

Saiph frowned.

 

Could he risk that, though? His father didn’t control the Ministry yet. He didn’t even know who was currently Minister. And who knows what could happen to him if they not only find out he’s a time traveler, but the son of the Dark Lord and Harry Potter.

 

On the subject of Harry, maybe he could go to him for help. But as of now Harry probably wasn’t all that much older than him. Considering the date on his tempus charm, Harry was probably sixteen. And in Hogwarts. Even if the wards still allowed him passage the chances of Harry having anything useful to say were slim. And if he wasn’t in Hogwarts yet, then he would be at those wretched Muggles house, where he said he used to have to spend all his summers. That was even worse. All the same, he desperately wanted Harry right now. Harry might not be able to help him with finding a way back home, but at the very least he would be a warm and comforting presence. And quite honestly he still labored under the delusion that Harry could make everything better just by mere existence.

 

With Harry a realistic but unhelpful option, Saiph mulled over the idea of telling someone perhaps a bit older. But not someone from the Ministry. Someone he could trust.

 

All he could think of were Inner Circle Death Eaters; none of whom Saiph knew how to get in contact with, and all of whom would probably send him straight to his father anyway.

 

It was at this point, still shaky and sick from extensive time travel, Saiph resigned himself to his fate.

 

His father it was, then.

 

//

 

It was a good thing he and his siblings wore their portkey necklaces all the time, otherwise he wouldn’t even know where to start in his search for his father. Ever since that one time Aster managed to apparate herself a whole continent over, their father had gotten a bit paranoid about the whereabouts of his children, and further, how to retrieve them when they managed to get themselves into trouble. He half hoped it would somehow magically teleport him back twenty years into the future, but no such luck.

 

Instead, it spat him out in the middle of something that looked to be important.

 

Saiph reared back immediately, lost his balance, and stumbled a bit as he almost fell over. Truth be told he was not a fan of portkeys; he thought they were worse than Apparition. Or maybe the people he side-apparated with were just very good at it. That actually had merit, now that he thought about it.

 

At any rate, his eyes grew very wide when he realized just where he was.

 

An entire table of Death Eaters turned to face him as he appeared at the far end of the table, looking about equally as surprised as he did.

 

After a beat of stunned silence, Voldemort rose from his chair, decidedly displeased. “What is the meaning of this, Lucius?” He hissed dangerously to his subordinate, narrowing his eyes at the blonde man.

 

“I -- I don’t know, my Lord.” He managed to choke out, gaze flickering wildly between his Master and the young boy who shared alarmingly similar features with him.

 

He was not the only one to notice, he knew. It was a bit hard to miss. The child was certainly younger than Draco, with classically attractive features that he had only ever seen on his Lord. The eyes, however, were quite different. A breathtaking, electric chartreuse that he had never seen in anything but the killing curse. And yet the soft, floating curls, the aristocratic nose, the shape of his high cheek bones and the sharp cut of his brows all spoke of Lord Voldemort.

 

Bellatrix scooted her chair out from underneath the table, much to Saiph’s trepidation. Her glimmering black eyes sharpened onto him as she sauntered over, slowly stalking around him. “What an adorable little boy.” She crooned. “Are you lost, little boy? Did someone send you, perhaps?”

 

She leaned over, as if to touch him. He flinched away. “You can tell me,” she murmured sweetly. “Who asked you to come here?”

 

“Don’t be absurd, Bellatrix.” Lucius snapped, interrupting him before he could respond, which admittedly, he had no intention of doing. “Dumbledore couldn’t possibly have gotten that child past these wards.”

 

“And who could have, then?” Returned Rodolphus with a speculative look towards the child, voice pitched low.

 

A high flush blotted against the elder Malfoy’s cheeks. “Well -- that’s -- “

 

“Why would he send a child?” Narcissa interrupted coldly, coming to her husband’s defense.

 

Rodolphus laughed darkly. “Dumbledore always sends children, don't you know? He's rather fond of them.”

 

A round of low chuckles started about the table, as everyone remembered the events at the Ministry.

 

But Voldemort was not nearly as amused with the reminder. “And shall someone refresh my memory of how, exactly, those _children_ managed to best my fully grown followers?”  

 

The chuckling abruptly stopped.

 

Voldemort appeared satisfied by their fear. “But alas, we have gone off topic. It appears we have quite a few questions in need of answers; perhaps we should simply ask him, no?” Their Lord continued calmly, the crimson eyes Saiph was so familiar with turning their full attention onto him. The young boy swallowed thickly; it reminded him of the time he accidentally blew up his father’s potion’s lab. The man had been furious, and yet his demeanor had been so calm despite the fury beneath the surface.

 

All the assembled Death Eaters turned to him with anticipation.

 

“Well, child?” His voice was soft like silk and yet so deadly beneath the surface. “Would you like to explain why you’re interrupting an important meeting of mine?”

 

He sounded so much like his father, Saiph would have been relieved if he wasn't so terrified.

 

His breath caught in his throat. “Well…” His voice was shaky, barely above a whisper. “Um…”

 

A soft slithering behind him made him jump, startling all the thoughts from his head. Saiph’s eyes grew wide as he heard the glide of smooth scales against the marble tiling, and the great bulk of his father’s magnificent scaled serpent slid around his legs. Her scales glittered in the wan light, as she twisted back until she could stare up into his eyes. The Death Eaters had begun to shift uneasily at her presence, a palpable fear rising in the room with her very appearance.

 

 _“Who is this child, Master?”_ She flicked her tongue out at him. “ _Is he for eating?”_

 

 _“Nagini,”_ Saiph replied, surprised.

 

Bellatrix sucked in a harsh breath at the parseltongue. A round of low murmurs made its way around the table at the hushed hissing.

 

Voldemort’s shining ruby eyes narrowed at the sound, and it was only a moment before he was abruptly pushing his chair away from the table and walking around the side. His followers flinched at the sound, but he had no eyes for them.

 

 _“Who are you, boy?”_ He repeated, patience thinning. “ _And how is it that you speak parseltongue?”_

 

Saiph’s gaze returned to his father, growing wide and wary as the man approached. He found himself wrapping his arms around Nagini, letting the serpent curl around his shoulders as if to give him comfort. He _hated_ when his father’s full attention centered onto him. He would be the first to admit that his father… intimidated him. Despite the fact that the man had never once really laid a hand on him -- he was not deaf or blind. Perhaps the great Lord Voldemort had never turned his ire to his son, but he’d certainly turned it on others. His mother being one of them. Of course, Harry always gave as good as he got, but still.

 

 _“Is he yours, Master?”_ Nagini spoke in his stead, rubbing her flat snout against him and catching his cheek with her tongue. _“He smells like you.”_

 

 _Way to out me, Nagini,_ Saiph thought, disparagingly. He met his father’s gaze nervously. Nagini’s comment seemed to have affected him, for he narrowed his eyes thoughtfully.   _“I -- I need your help.”_ He said, rather unsteadily. All the same he was proud of himself for getting the words out at all.   

 

 _“My help?”_ His father returned, features inscrutable.

 

He nodded, dropping his gaze. _“I’m lost.”_ He admitted.

 

 _“Lost?”_ Lord Voldemort repeated.

 

 _“In time.”_ Saiph added. _“I time travelled and now I don’t know how to get back.”_

 

//

 

“I suggest you start from the beginning.” His father advised, once he had dismissed his Death Eaters and moved them into a separate sitting room.

 

It still felt stiff and uncomfortable to Saiph, but he had enough experience with Malfoy Manor to know it was simply part of the ambiance. All the same he felt wary and disconcerted as he burrowed into one of the large arm chairs, watching his father summon an elf for tea. Nagini remained in his arms, comforting him somewhat with her presence. At least Nagini still liked him. She had always been fond of the youngest son of Lord Voldemort, if only because Saiph was still at an age where fetching mice for the mighty snake still entertained him.

 

“I - what’s the beginning?” Saiph fidgeted in his seat.

 

His father only spared him a long, ill-humored look. “Do not try my patience.” He warned.

 

“I’m not meaning to!” Saiph protested, on instinct. He shut his mouth quickly after, eyes growing wide. He hadn’t meant to talk back, but they had this conversation at least once a fortnight. Lord Voldemort always grew impatient with him when Saiph found himself nervous in front of the man. He always thought Saiph was intentionally giving him cheek, when in reality he simply had no idea what to say. This of course did nothing but exacerbate the problem.

 

Saiph curled in on himself further, wishing for Harry. “Sorry.” He muttered after a beat. “I didn’t mean to shout.”

 

Voldemort was looking at him oddly.

 

Saiph took a breath. “Um, the beginning… Right. Okay. Well I guess I should start with my beginning -- I was born on November 7, 2009.” He began, shakily. “To… to the Dark Lord Voldemort and Harry Potter.”

 

He chanced a glance at his father. The man looked stunned, the unadulterated shock clearing out any other expression from his features, making it difficult for Saiph to tell what he was feeling.

 

“Excuse me?” He returned, finally, voice high with shock.

 

Saiph swallowed his apprehension, before continuing. “My name is Saiph Asterion Potter. I’m eleven years old. Um, I’m in Slytherin… I just started my first year at Hogwarts. I last remember it being December 14, 2020.” He shrugged, helplessly. “And then I found myself here.”

 

But the Dark Lord still seemed a bit stuck at the first part of his explanation. “Potter?” He repeated, at length.

 

Saiph nodded hesitatingly.

 

Lord Voldemort said nothing, eventually seating himself in the chair across from him. The tea set between them lay untouched and forgotten.

 

“Potter.” He said, again, frowning. It appeared more to himself than to Saiph though, so the boy said nothing.

 

His father looked deep in thought, gaze turned away from him. After a few tense moments, Saiph lowered his gaze back to Nagini, petting her snout. She hissed happily. It was even longer until his father spoke again. “How did this happen?”

 

Saiph frowned at that. “What do you mean?” If this was about his surname, he had no answers to give. To be fair, his real last name was Riddle, but by some unspoken agreement whenever his full name needed to be said aloud it was always spoken as Saiph Asterion Potter. He wasn’t sure if that was what the Dark Lord was so hung up about, though.

 

His father fixed him a narrow look. “How much do you know of our history?” He looked somewhat pained as he added; “Mine and… Potter’s.”

 

“Yours and Harry’s?” Saiph clarified, surprised. His father nodded grimly. Saiph pursed his lips, thinking. “I know you were enemies.” He confessed. “But Harry said it was a misunderstanding.”

 

“A misunderstanding.” Voldemort echoed, flatly.

 

“That’s what he said.” Saiph defended, wavering.

 

“That is a grave understatement.” Voldemort snorted. “I’m meant to kill him.”

 

“Kill him? Harry?” He gasped, sitting upright so quickly Nagini almost fell to the floor. He'd never heard anything about that! “But why?”

 

“There is a prophecy about us.” Voldemort revealed, impassively. He leaned back in his chair. “And that is not even to remark on our history already; the idea that we are in a relationship of any kind is absurd.”

 

Saiph frowned further. “But it’s true.” He insisted.

 

Voldemort simply looked at him appraisingly, tilting his head. “How can you be so certain?”

 

The idea of this boy being his son certainly had merit. He spoke parseltongue, and if that wasn’t enough proof, his features certainly were. They couldn’t look more alike if they tried. Of course the eyes were different, but the similarities were obvious regardless. So perhaps the boy really was his son. He could believe that.

 

But his son with _Harry Potter_?

 

“What do you mean? Of course I know! We live together!” _Or we did_ , he thought sadly, before brushing that away. He didn’t want to think about that right now.

 

“You -- you two are _married_ ,” ( _although he wasn’t sure how much longer that would last_ )

 

“ - You seem happy together, “ ( _or at least they used to_ )

 

“-and you accomplish so much together.” _(whenever they’re on speaking terms)_

 

Saiph swallows thickly. “How can that all be a lie?”

 

How could it all mean nothing? How could it all just break apart like this?

 

His father looked pensive as he digested this.

 

“Happy…?” A disgusted sneer curled against his lips.

 

Saiph scowled. “Fine. You seem content with each other. It works for you two. At the very least, you two are allies that work together to further your aims.”

 

And Saiph was beginning to worry that was all they were going to be now. Just allies.

 

“And what aims would those be?”

 

Saiph blinked. “I… I’m not really sure.” He confessed, sheepishly. “But I know it’s the reason we have Magical primary schools now, and the reason sometimes muggleborns live with pureblood families. And it’s the reason why it’s really hard to get to the muggle world now.” Although that had never stopped Ceph or Aster.

 

Voldemort digested this thoughtfully. “Interesting…” He murmured. “And what does Potter think of this?”

 

Saiph shrugged. “He helped you do all that. So I guess he’s happy with it. He was the one who put up all the portals.”

 

“Portals?”

 

 _Portals?_ What on earth? How was that even possible?

 

The boy nodded. “To the muggle world. There are a whole bunch around the world, but they’re all controlled by -- well, by you. You have to get a special pass to go.” Saiph gestured grandly. “Harry was the one who split the two worlds apart! And now they exist in separate dimensions, so you have to go through a portal to travel between them.”

 

The man looked very surprised at that.

 

Voldemort frowned contemplatively. The boy’s information was most interesting. So he and Harry Potter ended up working together? He was not pleased with the idea of being in an actual relationship with the boy, but the idea of a partnership sounded quite appealing. It was clear that Potter grew to be an influential and powerful wizard. The idea of actually splitting the wizarding and muggle worlds into separate dimensions was mind boggling. Just what sort of power did the boy have, to be able to do something so impossible? He could admit, he was annoyed to know that his greatest adversary grew to be someone so incredible… but he supposed he could overlook that when the boy turned from powerful adversary to powerful ally. It was clear he and Potter could do great things together.

 

And the idea of being in an intimate relationship with the boy…

 

His speculative gaze turned back to the young child in the chair across from him, Nagini curled in his arms.

 

Well, the Potter boy was still that -- a boy. He couldn’t imagine being attracted to Potter, let alone bedding him, but he could certainly acknowledge that scenario some time in the future, when the boy was fully grown, and powerful enough to truly be his equal. And obviously their coupling could produce powerful heirs. Despite his skittishness, Saiph was quite clearly powerful. Even at such a young age he had a tangible magical aura; it dispersed into the room with a wavering air of apprehension, but that was to be expected, considering the boy’s situation it was only natural for his magic to exude his nervousness.

 

At any rate, he found himself slowly coming around to the idea. Yes… perhaps a future with Potter was not a bad thing at all.

 

“So… I guess you guys aren’t friends, then.” Saiph hazarded, in a small voice, stirring him out of his thoughts.

 

Voldemort almost snorted. The boy had the gift of understatement.

 

“No, we certainly are not.” He decided to humor him, at least for now. Then he frowned pensively. “And quite frankly, I don’t see how anything could change that.”

 

Saiph’s brow furrowed. “But it has to somehow, right? It can’t be that bad.”

 

“You are vastly underestimating the mutual loathing we have for each other. I have made multiple attempts on his life, none of which I have regretted --” _Until now, that is_. “And if your story is to be believed, then I also killed your maternal grandparents. We are on opposite sides of the war; that alone makes the idea of any relationship between us absurd.”

 

The young Slytherin frowned at the floor. His father was right. And unfortunately, Saiph didn’t know enough about his parents history to know how that all changed. What made them stop being enemies? What made them get _married_? Hell, what made them start a family together? He wished he had the answers. Maybe if he did, he could fix everything that was wrong with them in the future. Maybe if he knew why they fell in love with each other in the first place, he could figure out what went wrong.

 

“Mum is very forgiving.” He said instead. “You tell him all the time that he’s _too_ forgiving. I’m sure he forgives you for it all.”

 

Voldemort stared at him in disbelief. Finally he shook his head. “You are too optimistic, child.” He reprimanded, but it was without heat. He leaned back in his chair, observing the boy in front of him with speculative crimson eyes. “At any rate, the subject of your supposed time-travel is far more pressing at present than whatever relationship Potter and I may share in the future.”

 

 _Supposed?_ Saiph scowled. “I’m not making it up!” He protested.

 

“I’m not insinuating you did.” Voldemort returned calmly. “But time-travel is limited to a twenty-four hour window; anything further is theoretically impossible.”

 

Saiph opened his mouth to protest again, but Voldemort continued; “However, there may be mitigating circumstances I am not aware of. You asked for my assistance in bringing you back to the future, but I cannot assist you without knowing how it happened.”

 

Saiph closed his mouth. His father had a point.

 

“I don’t really know what happened.” He admitted. “I can’t remember much… there was sand, and fire, and runes on the ground.”

 

“You have no recollection of the actual event itself?” The Dark Lord pressed.

 

Saiph shook his head. “I wish I did.” He replied, sadly.

 

Voldemort said nothing, mulling this over. He shouldn’t be so surprised; quite frankly it was a miracle the boy managed to get all the way back here in one piece. A few missing memories, especially of the moments leading up to his time travel, were probably to be expected. If anything, he would have expected prolific amnesia from such an event, or an equally as debilitating mind injury. Perhaps this was once again testimony to the child’s innate magical power.

 

“The hour is growing late.” Voldemort observed, his gaze flickering to the grandfather clock propped against the wall, and then to the untouched tea set between them. “I’m afraid there’s little chance we’ll be returning you before morning; I’ll have an elf fix a room for you. Pick whichever you like, as long as it’s well within my wards.”

 

Saiph nodded absently, disheartened to hear that his problems weren’t anywhere close to being solved, but tired enough that the prospect of bed was an enticing one.

 

He blinked blearily, standing up as he rubbed his eyes. Nagini slithered off him, returning to her master.

 

“What about Harry?” Saiph asked, suddenly.

 

Voldemort frowned. “What about him?”

 

All of a sudden the boy had closed the distance between them and was tugging on the sleeve of his robe. The gesture was so… so _childish_ , Voldemort was too shocked to shake him off. It was like a little kid trying to get the attention of -- well, his father. Which would make sense. Because Saiph was a little kid, and Voldemort was his father. The prospect of being a father at all was still bewildering. Not necessarily unwelcomed, but still odd.

 

“We have to save him!”

 

Voldemort stirred out of his thoughts at that. “Save him from what?”

 

“Those muggles!” The boy cried. “His muggle relatives he stays with. They’re evil! He said he had to stay with them every summer, and they treated him horribly.”

 

The Dark Lord looked surprised at that. “The boy-who-lived is made to stay with muggles? A magical child, with muggles?” He said, enraged. “ _Abusive_ muggles?”

 

Saiph nodded. “His aunt and uncle.” He added. Now Saiph had never heard this story personally, because Harry didn’t like to talk about his past, but Cepheus had mentioned something along those lines, and Saiph was smart enough to come to the obvious conclusion. Not to mention, if Harry wasn’t with them than he would be with Dumbledore, which would be even worse!

 

Harry was better off with father; at least that way, someone could protect him while he still needed it. Right now, Harry was not the all powerful Master of Death that Saiph remembered him to be, but just a young boy, not much older than himself.

 

“This is Dumbledore’s doing.” Voldemort hissed, more to himself than to Saiph.

 

Saiph bit his lip. “But how are we going to rescue him? It’s warded.”

 

“We’ll simply have to lure him out.” Voldemort dismissed his concerns, although he had a few himself. Namely, how would he manage to lure the boy out? He had already used their connection to ensnare the boy into his plot by using his godfather; not even Potter was stupid enough to fall for the same trick twice.

 

However, that was the only means by which Voldemort had to communicate with the Boy-who-lived. He could use Severus, but he didn’t want to risk it. His connection with Potter -- and the potential it had -- must be kept secret. He spared another quick glance at the young boy -- his young _son_. No. No one can know of this.

 

“How do you plan to do that?” The young boy asked.

 

Voldemort waved him away. “Leave that to me.”

 

Saiph frowned; the visage reminded him of himself. Except, he didn’t think he had ever managed to make such a contrary expression look so endearing. “But I have an idea.”

 

//

 

Harry had done a lot of stupid things in his life.

 

This was definitely at the top of the list.

 

He knew he was being manipulated; there were only so many times you could have bizarre and oddly emotional dreams that weren’t sex-related in one week, before it started to get mildly concerning. It was beginning to hit that point. And he should know from experience that this wasn’t going to end well. It was almost as if this entire last year had taught him absolutely nothing; Voldemort was sending him these dreams, for a purpose. Probably a pretty shit one, if the events of this year were anything to go by.

 

And yet, here he was dodging his way through the Order guards anyway, slipping on his Invisibility Cloak as he walked briskly in the direction of the park.

 

His steps grew quicker as his thoughts turned over restlessly in his head. He was being astronomically stupid. Hermione was going to kill him, and that was to say nothing of the Weasleys. Or Ron. Ron would probably rip him a new one. Especially after how the fiasco at the Ministry had went down.

 

But these dreams were different.

 

They weren’t about Sirius, about Mr. Weasley - they weren’t about anyone he knew, really. Not about his friends, or the Order… they seemed to have nothing to do with him. Or rather, they appeared to have everything to do with him, but none of it was familiar to him at all.

 

They were all centered around - Harry. At least, he thought they were. The figure was never very clear, but for some reason his presence, his magic, his voice and his laugh - Harry had come to the absurd conclusion that they were somehow his own. Even if he had never felt his own magic before, and his voice definitely wasn’t that deep, nor his laugh so carefree. The older man was definitely an older version of Harry himself. And the scenes… They felt like memories, but they had never happened. Surely they had never happened. And who were those people?

 

The dreams were full of a little boy, and his love and adoration for Harry. His love for his little sister, even though she was a menace. His idolization of his older brother, his affection for his older sister - and his shy awe and apprehension over his father. He looked at Harry as if he hung the moon or something; he had been an especially clingy child in his youth, and was not any less possessive as he progressed closer to his teenage years. He loved his father, too, but it seemed he had a harder time connecting with the inexpressive and emotionless man. The Harry in his dreams assured him that his father loved him very much, even though he had a hard time showing it.

 

They were very specific and incredibly vivid, almost overwhelmingly so, yet all of them were captured snapshots of small, almost insignificant moments in time. Moments in time that were so encompassing it felt as if he truly was a part of it. The little boy, scared and nervous as an older Harry knelt in front of him and smoothed out his hair, the whistle of the Hogwarts express behind them and the laughter of all the new and returning students suffused in the smoky air. He leaned into the hand on his head, and Harry smiled endearingly down at him. _“What happens if I’m not in Slytherin? What if I end up in Gryffindor?”_ The boy asks, fretfully. Harry only pulls him close. _“What’s wrong with Gryffindor?”_ He asks, amused. The boy leans even closer. _“Daddy doesn’t like Gryffindors.”_ He confesses, with wide, fearful eyes. Harry laughs. _“He likes me, doesn’t he?”_

 

Harry, laughing with flour on his nose as he rolled out cookie dough in the kitchen; the little boy propped on a tall stool, adorably focused on cutting the flattened dough into perfect shapes with his cookie cutter; his little sister across from them in her own chair, stealing bits of raw cookie, much to Harry's consternation. _“Those aren’t for eating yet,”_ Harry chastises her. She gasps, affronted. _“Saiph stole some too!”_ She rats her brother out immediately. The boy by his side sputters, ineffectual. Harry can’t help but laugh at them.

 

It all seemed so real.

 

It was driving him insane.

 

That’s why he had to meet him. He couldn’t understand why Voldemort would be sending him these dreams. They certainly weren’t his own, so it must be the Dark Lord. But why in Merlin’s name would Voldemort be dreaming of _this_? Love, affection, belonging and family were the last things Voldemort would ever care about. But they were the first things for Harry.

 

 _It’s a trap_ , he reminded himself, even as he continued onwards.

 

Voldemort is luring you out from safety, the logical part of his head reminded him. He’s going to kill you. And you’re practically handing yourself over on a platter.

 

All of this was true, but the thought of the little green-eyed boy in his memories had him turning the corner into the park.

 

He felt all the breath leave him.

 

He nearly choked in shock, the Invisibility Cloak almost slipping from his shaking fingers.

 

Oh Merlin. It really was Voldemort.

 

He had half convinced himself that he was overreacting; that these dreams were honestly just a figment of his imagination, some kind of realization of his deepest desires. It certainly held plausibility. There was nothing Harry wanted more than to have his own family. To feel the love he could only sadly watch from the sidelines as it was showered on to other people.

 

But it would be very hard to convince himself that it was all just his imagination when the Dark Lord really was in front of him, confirming the fact that they had been sent by him. Aside from the black cloak and robes, he looked nothing like he did in the Ministry. He looked like an older, but still equally attractive version of the boy from the Diary. Despite himself, Harry could at least privately admit that he had good taste. At least, he assumed he did. Because the boy in the memories looked too much like Voldemort to be anyone else’s child, and yet it was Harry that he turned to and called ‘Mommy’.

 

He supposed he shouldn’t have been surprised when Voldemort merely tilted his head, crimson eyes easily finding Harry despite the cloak.

 

“Harry,” he said. It was not the normal way he spoke Harry’s name, full of anger, or smugness. It was devoid of emotion, oddly inscrutable. As if even he didn’t know how he felt about Harry currently.

 

Harry took a shuddering breath, the hood sliding off his head to reveal his features. “Voldemort.” He returned, curtly.

 

Harry didn’t know what he had expected of this meeting.

 

Well, his death, most likely. Perhaps a bit of torture. Maybe even his loved ones, captured and tortured by Voldemort so the Dark Lord could enjoy watching Harry’s pain in person. Or a small brigade of Death Eaters, like in the graveyard and the Ministry.

 

However, Voldemort was alone.

 

Well, almost.

 

Harry watched with disbelief as a smaller form peered out from behind Voldemort’s cloak.

 

It was the boy.

 

His eyes were wet and shining, and such a startling and familiar verdant green Harry had to reel back in shock. He looked as if he was trying to be very brave, and for some reason that was what hit Harry the hardest. He looked so frightened, but refused to cry. He might have had Tom Riddle’s features - the angelic face, the tamed chocolate curls - but this alone was enough for Harry to overcome his own denial and accept this child for what he really was.

 

His son.

 

This reality was further solidified when the child finally tore away from Voldemort, racing towards him as if there was nowhere else he wanted to be but with Harry.

 

“ _Mommy,_ ” he cried, with an expression of great relief amidst the tearful eyes.

 

The admission stole his breath away from him. The Gryffindor was stunned into immobility as the young boy launched himself up into Harry’s arms. He was so small, and his heart was beating so fast Harry thought he could feel it the same way he could feel the boy’s trembling.

 

“U--Um…” For a long moment, Harry could only feel bewilderment and incredulity.

 

He’d always wanted a family, but he’d always assumed he would make a pretty pathetic parent as well. He ended up surprising himself, though. For some reason, the awkwardness he always felt whenever he had to talk to anyone was easily pushed aside.

 

“Hey,” he murmured quietly, kneeling down so he could set the boy back on his feet, hugging him closely. “You’re okay… you’re okay. It’s all going to be okay.”

 

This apparently was the right thing to say, because the young boy held him tighter, nodding against his shoulder. He sniffled a little, but Harry thought he was doing an admirable job holding himself together, considering his circumstances… whatever they were.

 

Saiph tightened his grip, unwilling to let Harry go. It hit him all at once, all the fear and terror and worry that had plagued him ever since he had found himself twenty years in the past. It slammed into him like the Knight bus, but just as quickly it all washed away as Harry hugged him back, Harry’s presence making it all melt away.

 

“Mom.” He said again, voice muffled.

 

Ceph and Aster call Harry by his name, and recently Saiph had decided he was going to do the same. He wasn’t a baby anymore, he didn’t need to call him mommy. (Harry was disapproving about the whole thing; he said it was okay because Ceph and Aster were adults now, but Saiph was still a child. There was nothing Saiph resented quite like being considered a child, so the ensuing argument did not end well.)

 

But as of right now he couldn’t care less. He was so happy to see the familiar face and feel the comforting lick of his magic against his skin. It didn’t feel quite the same as it did when Harry was the Master of Death, but it was still obviously Harry’s.

 

Harry stiffened once again at the reminder of who this boy was. He still wasn’t quite over it.

 

“You…” He began unsteadily, pulling the boy back so he could get another good look at him.

 

His big green eyes were still bright and watery; he was biting profusely into his lower lip, and his striking features were twisted into an expression equal parts terror and relief. His first thought was: _he looks a lot like his father_ . And promptly after: _he’s surprisingly emotional for the son of Lord Voldemort._

 

But then Harry remembered his dreams, and the very apparent implication that Harry was his other parent. Suddenly the boy’s emotional state wasn’t so surprising.

 

He brushed the boy’s hair out of his face, marveling at how tame it was. Nothing like his own, which was thick and unruly and stuck in an artless mess no matter what he did with it. This definitely wasn’t his hair. Even the coloring was wrong, a cinnamon brown a few shades warmer than his own. The boy’s brown curls felt like thin silk against his fingertips, his forehead still baby soft. Harry smiled warmly at him, as the boy blinked at him and gave another snuffle.

 

Still, despite Tom Riddle’s hair and Tom Riddle’s features, there was no mistaking it. “I guess you really are mine, huh?” He said quietly, as he tucked another strand of hair behind his ear.

 

The boy nodded quickly.

 

Harry tilted his head. “What’s your name?”

 

“Saiph,” he answered, after a beat. “My name is Saiph Asterion…” The boy trailed off, looking rather sheepish. “Well, I think my birth certificate says Riddle. But my Hogwarts letter said Potter, and most of my teachers call me Potter. Oh, but the Goblins and sometimes the portraits call me Black.”

 

Harry blinked. Yes, he supposed that would get complicated.

 

Harry pursed his lips in thought. “And what do _I_ call you?”

 

Saiph’s brow furrowed. “You call me Saiph.” He replied, after a moment of thought. “Or Sai.”

 

Harry laughed. “Well, I guess that’s all that matters then, right?” The boy smiled back shyly. “And how old are you, Saiph?”

 

“I’m eleven.” He answered immediately.

 

“Eleven, huh? So you’re in Hogwarts now?”

 

Saiph nodded again. “Yes.” He looked a little bashful.

 

“And what house are you in?”

 

“I’m in Slytherin.” He replied without missing a beat. A hesitant look darted across his face, and then he leaned in a bit closer. “But the hat wanted to put me in Gryffindor.” He confessed, quietly.

 

Harry remembered his dreams then -- not dreams, memories. The boy’s memories of his first time boarding the Hogwarts Express, and all his fears and apprehension over his sorting.

 

Harry had to stifle his laugh at the irony. “It did?” He leaned in closer too. “Did you know it wanted to put me in Slytherin?”

 

Saiph’s eyes grew wide as saucers. “ _No_.” He mouth opened with surprise. Then it closed, his lips pursing. “You didn’t want to be in Slytherin?” He asked, sounding only genuinely curious and not at all judgmental.

 

Harry chuckled lowly. “I said, ‘not Slytherin, anything _but_ Slytherin’. So the hat put me in Gryffindor.” Harry turned the question around. “Why didn’t you want to be in Gryffindor?”

 

But Saiph only shrugged, looking down. “I dunno.”

 

Harry supposed the answer would have to do for now, although he knew there was more to it than that. _Daddy doesn’t like Gryffindors_ , Saiph had said, in his dream. However this wasn’t really the time or place to get into it.

 

This just reminded him of where he was right now; kneeling at the mouth of Magnolia Crescent Park, on a dark moonlit path with the Dark Lord only a few paces away.

 

No, not the right time at all. He wanted to sit down with the boy -- with his _son_ \-- and hear about it all. Why was he so afraid of Gryffindor? Or maybe the better question, why was he so scared of what his father thought of him being in Gryffindor? What did he think of Hogwarts? What was his favorite subject? Was he scared or excited when he first saw the castle? Did he miss him? Write a lot of letters? He had thousands and thousands of questions, and none of them could be properly answered here. Harry bit his lip. He couldn’t take the boy back to the Dursley’s though, that wasn’t even a thought worth consideration. And what would he tell the Weasley’s, if he took him back to the Burrow? My son from the future is here, he’s really lost and scared so I don’t want to leave him alone. Or even leave him with his other father, who incidentally is Voldemort.

 

But that only left one course of action.

 

Harry sighed in resignation, turning his attention to Voldemort. “I’m assuming he’s staying with you?” He asked, with no small amount of defeat.

 

Voldemort nodded.

 

Saiph tugged at his shirt. “You’re coming with us, right?” He pleaded, with big, familiar green eyes.

 

Harry sighed again, before smiling crookedly. “Well I can’t very well leave you two alone, now can I?”

 

//

 

Harry had to return briefly to retrieve his sparse belongings from the Dursley’s.

 

They were not pleased to see him, and for that matter Harry was equally as displeased to see them. Their mood improved once Harry revealed to them that he would be leaving for the remainder of the summer. He could care less about what they felt, though. He had more important things to worry about. Namely, the young boy and the Dark Lord waiting outside of the house.

 

When he returned to them they both wore similar contrary expressions. Saiph confessed to disliking the Dursley’s greatly, a sentiment Harry shared. He assured the boy he would never have to meet them ever again. From the triumphant look in Saiph’s eyes, it was apparently a promise he would keep.

 

The Dark Lord was staying in Malfoy Manor, with an entire set of rooms dedicated solely to him. The majority of the west wing was under his occupation, leaving Harry with ample space. Voldemort advised him to keep to the warded rooms, lest he run into any unfavorable characters. For once, Harry agreed with him. He had no intention of running into any of Voldemort’s followers. Just the idea of meeting Bellatrix in the halls made his blood boil.

 

Fortunately Saiph’s very existence did a good job of distracting his thoughts from Bellatrix, or even Sirius, for that matter.

 

It was during dinner -- which was an incredibly awkward affair -- that Saiph confirmed that those dreams were, indeed, his own memories.

 

“I didn’t know how else to get you to believe it was real.” Saiph implored apologetically, when Harry finally confronted him about it.

 

Harry shook his head with a smile. “It’s alright, Sai. I was just rather curious -- they seemed too detailed to be made up.”

 

Voldemort, who had been dining with them silently, suddenly looked invested in the turn in conversation.

 

“They definitely weren’t made up.” Saiph replied, steadfast.

 

Harry tilted his head. “Why those ones in particular?”

 

The boy fixed a studious gaze down at his carrots. “I dunno. I just wanted to pick good memories.”

 

Which made Harry wonder if he had a lot of bad ones.

 

“What memories?” Voldemort interrupted, waspishly.

 

Harry turned to him, surprised. “You didn’t see them?”

 

“No,” he replied, tersely. “I simply passed them along.”

 

Harry’s gaze slid back to Saiph. The boy was still staring deeply into his plate, as if he could melt into it if he tried hard enough.

 

“They were just some of his memories from the future,” Harry answered slowly, sending another cautious glance his son’s way before his attention returned to Voldemort.

 

“About?”

 

“Nothing much.” Harry replied, evenly. “Just some memories of us. Of his sister --”

 

“Sister?” Voldemort cut in, surprised.

 

Harry paused, the thought sinking in as well.

 

Of course, he had experienced Saiph’s memories for himself, but he’d sort of forgotten about that fact, overlooking it as simply part of the whole picture of this distant future that hadn’t happened yet. It had seemed so right in the memories, so matter-of-fact, that it hadn’t registered to him as something he should be surprised about. Out of context, however, it occurred to him just then what that _meant_.

 

He flushed a brilliant crimson.

 

Ah.

 

Yes. He supposed Saiph having siblings would of course mean that he and Voldemort… consummated their marriage more than once.

 

If possible, he flushed even further.

 

Best not to think about that right now.

 

Fortunately, the Dark Lord did not notice, too busy interrogating his son. “There are two of you?”

 

“There are four of us.” Saiph corrected.

 

Voldemort leaned back in his chair, a stunned expression on his face. Apparently he was wrapping his mind around the same mind-boggling conclusion Harry had come to.

 

“You have an older brother and sister, right?” Harry very studiously did not meet Voldemort’s gaze.

 

Saiph nodded, dropping his fork and pushing his plate away, looking oddly shy once again. “Yes.” He answered in a small voice.

 

Harry only smiled encouragingly. “Cepheus is your older brother?” He nodded again. “What do you think about him?” He pressed gently, even though he already knew the answer.

 

“I like him.” Saiph replied, thickly.

 

“Yeah?” Harry smiled wider. “And what about your sister?”

 

“Which one?”

 

“You have _two_?” Voldemort interrupted, rather demandingly. Apparently sons were fine, but daughters were too much for him.

 

Saiph’s gaze flickered up to his father. “An older sister and a younger sister.” He revealed.

 

“Cepheus and Asterope are twins, right?” Harry continued, softly, reaching over to rub a hand over Saiph’s hair. The boy turned to him, his apprehension melting a bit to reveal a small smile.

 

“They are.” He agreed. “I like Asterope too.” He shriveled his nose. “I like her better than Cassi, anyway.”

 

Harry laughed. “Why don’t you like Cassi?”

 

“She’s a terror.” Saiph declared. “And she’s nosey. And she _always_ follows me around.”

 

Harry only grinned. “But that must mean she likes you then.” He pointed out. “But I guess it’s normal for big brothers to get annoyed with their little sisters, right?”

 

Saiph nodded readily. “Little sisters are annoying.” He concurred.

 

But Saiph supposed as far as little sisters go, Cassiopeia was not the worst. He hadn’t realized how horrible girls could be until he went to Hogwarts. They were _everywhere._ And they were _always_ trying to talk to him. He shivered involuntarily. And they were very persistent, and all they wanted to do was talk about boys and hair styles and shoes and clothes. At the very least, Cassi despised all of those, and would rather to talk to her dead things than to Saiph.

 

The table rattled slightly, and then all the dishes disappeared. Harry was slightly surprised at that, not used to seeing that happen outside of Hogwarts. Saiph and Voldemort did not appear remotely surprised; Saiph reached over immediately for a macaron just as it popped into existence, courtesy of the house elves. A cup and saucer of coffee appeared in front of Voldemort, and a little Malfoy house elf popped into existence between he and Saiph, looking expectant.

 

Saiph leaned over. “Can I get a cup of hot milk, please?” He asked the elf.

 

The elf nodded with an absurd amount of enthusiasm, before turning to Harry. Harry blinked. “Err -- I’ll have an earl grey, please.”

 

With a low bow it popped away, and within moments the desired drinks were on the table, along with an extensive serving of desserts.

 

Harry stared at them in wonder. He’d never seen so many desserts outside of Hogwarts. And the vast majority were things that he’d never seen before. Trust the Malfoy’s to serve all sorts of exotic treats for after dinner, he thought with no small amount of exasperation. He tentatively scrutinized each elaborately styled plate, gaze moving from little tea cakes to a rainbow of macarons, to a set of finger tarts.

 

Saiph, noticing his hesitation, grabbed him a flute of… something.

 

“You like these.” He assured, to Harry’s surprise.

 

Harry supposed the boy would probably know better than he would, and with a shrug he tried it.

 

Saiph was right.

 

Harry grinned around his spoonful. “You know me very well, don’t you?”

 

Saiph shrugged, blushing slightly. “I guess.” He said.

 

Another silence descended on them, and Harry wished he could somehow make all this awkwardness disappear. Unfortunately, _everything_ about this situation was awkward. And it appeared they were all going to conclusively ignore the elephant in the room; namely, the fact that Harry and Voldemort were not, in fact, together. In any sense of the word. Actually, up until a few hours ago Harry had thought them mortal enemies.

 

The boy chanced a glance at the Dark Lord. He hadn’t said much at all, preferring to observe the situation in silence. Harry wasn’t sure what he was thinking, and trying to get a read on his emotions by studying his facial expressions was a waste of time. And really, Harry didn’t feel up to looking at his face. It was just another reminder that everything Harry had assumed to be reality had been upturned completely in the past few hours.

 

For Merlin’s sake, he was sitting here having dinner with his arch-enemy, the man who tried to kill him multiple times, and his eleven year-old son from the future, in Malfoy manor of all places.

 

Voldemort meanwhile had far longer to digest the situation, but was still at an equal loss as the boy-who-lived.

 

He understood the time-traveling bit. A time discrepancy this large was unheard of, but considering the child’s parents, it wasn’t much of a stretch to assume he and Harry could create someone capable of it. At any rate, time-traveling was the least of his worries. Even the boy’s general existence no longer shocked him. Even the idea of himself and Harry Potter in the distant future did not concern him. He’d made his peace with all that.

 

In theory, anyway.

 

In reality, it was clear he hadn’t come to terms with it all that well. The idea of Saiph having _siblings_ still sent him reeling. Four. There were four of them. Why in Merlin’s name would he have four? Having an heir, he could understand. Even having two was acceptable; one to be the heir of Slytherin, and one to inherit the Potter House. Maybe even a third, he supposed, if Saiph’s words from earlier about being confused as a Black were to be believed. Well, he had said that the two eldest were twins, so perhaps four was an accident. Perhaps they were _all_ accidents.

 

Maybe that was what really disturbed him - the idea of not knowing what the future would hold. Of being so comprehensively caught off guard.

 

They were both stirred out of their thoughts when Saiph gave an aborted yawn.

 

“Tired?” Harry asked.

 

“No.” _Yes_. But Saiph didn’t want to go to sleep just yet. He didn’t want to leave Harry quite yet.

 

Harry smiled fondly at the boy.

 

So maybe all of this was a total mind fuck. For some reason, Harry couldn’t care less in this moment. Saiph was _his._ His very own family. Maybe he could even forgive Voldemort for their shared past, in the face of their future. He may have taken Harry’s family away from him, but he’d given it back, too. He had four beautiful, perfect children. It was more than he could have ever dreamed of.

 

“Well I’m pretty tired,” Harry began suggestively. “Why don’t you help me pick a room? And then we can both get ready for bed.”

 

Saiph looked annoyed at the idea of being manipulated so easily, but ultimately did nothing to stop it. “Okay.” He decided, grabbing another lime green macaron before he jumped out of his seat.

 

After a beat, he turned to his father. “Are you coming too?”

 

The Dark Lord looked surprised he’d even ask. “No.” He replied, stiffly. “I have work to catch up on before I retire.”

 

Saiph only nodded, before tugging Harry along. “I’ll show you my room.” He was saying, as they walked out the door. “And then you can pick one near mine.”

 

Harry laughed delightedly. “Sounds good to me.”

 

//

 

Harry stared down at the sleeping form of his son, overcome with an overwhelming fondness for the young boy.

 

It hadn’t taken much to get the boy to fall asleep. He had looked exhausted. Harry supposed being twenty years in the past, and so far away from your family and everything you knew was probably a stressful situation. It would make anyone weary and exhausted, most especially a little eleven-year old boy. All Harry had to do was coax the boy into his pajamas, tuck him into bed, and he was out like a light.

 

He was so sweet, is the thing. Just a regular eleven-year old boy. He can occasionally be a bit immature, he certainly knows how to complain, but he is not spoilt. If anything, he perfectly acts his age. He was insecure and confused too, and that worried Harry, a bit, because he thinks there’s more to the boy than he lets on. There’s a certain sadness that lingers in his expression, one that Harry doesn’t understand. It looks a bit like longing, or regret.

 

But for now, his features are smoothed out into something soft and child-like, undisturbed with the spell of sleep. He runs another hand through the unfathomably soft hair, smiling.

 

It didn’t take long at all to get him into bed.

 

They visited his room first; unsurprisingly there wasn’t much to see. The furniture had clearly been there before him, and there were no personal belongings to speak of. He had been there a full week now -- that Harry had known judging from the timing of his dreams. It was long enough for Voldemort to procure the necessities for him, but certainly not long enough to make the room look lived in. Not that Harry had expected anything else. After that they explored the nearby bedrooms, looking for one for Harry. Harry didn’t mind rooming close to Saiph - better Saiph than Voldemort, at any rate. He didn’t know where the man’s personal rooms were, and he had no intention of finding out.

 

That being said, he really ought to find the man.

 

If only to discuss… recent events.

 

As much as Harry might be dreading the confrontation, he knew it was inevitable. It was better to air it all out than avoid the subject.  

 

He took a breath, face steeled into determination as he went to find Voldemort.

_/_

_These days, it was a relief to even hear their voices in the same room, even if it was only to argue._

_He leans against the wall by the closed door, listening to the muffled, angry voices volleying back and forth in his father's study. He scrunches his eyes closed, curling in on himself. Something breaks on the other side of the door, a quick pop of exploding glass, and then the heavy thud of something thick and sturdy dropping to the floor. From what he remembers of his father's study, it's probably the glass lamp on the end table, and the book it usually sits atop of. He's surprised Harry broke it; he was fond of that thing._

_It's usually Harry whose temper culminates in destructive displays of magic. His father says it's because Harry is too emotional to control over his magic - it's normally at this point Harry retorts that his magic is just a lot stronger. Normally Harry has intense control over his magic, he has to, since it's so violent. But these days his father's very existence is usually enough to turn Harry's calm countenance into uncontrollable rage._

_At least Harry is here, he thinks. He's been gone a lot._

_Saiph had returned from Platform 9 ¾ earlier that day, exiting the Hogwarts Express with his new friends and about three dozen stories to tell, only to find no one waiting for him on the other side._

_It washed over him like someone had poured ice water over his head, all his excitement over Yule break crumbling apart, until he was left with nothing but a forlorn loneliness._

_He refused to cry. He couldn't; what would it look like to see the son of the Dark Lord crying by himself on the platform, in front of all these people? All the same the back of his eyes burned, even as he almost refused to believe it. Had they really just abandoned him like this? Harry had promised to see him when he got back, and Ceph and Aster would be home from University by now too._

_He could only watch as all his friends ran to their parents, talking a mile a minute about their school year as their parents laughed and hugged them, grabbing their hands and leading them off the platform one by one._

_When it was clear there really was no one waiting for him on the platform, he fished out his portkey from underneath his shirt, whispering for home._

_The day got marginally better when he realized the only reason Ceph and Aster hadn't come to pick him up was because Cepheus had accidentally blown up three rooms of the house about an hour before they had meant to leave. So his older siblings had gotten an earful, and were now stuck fixing the mess. Aster complained loudly and intermittently about how none of this was her fault, it was Cepheus, as usual, trying out his experiments in places he shouldn't be. Part of the downside to being a twin was that they often got roped into doing everything together regardless. But on the bright side they were always together - they always had each other. Loneliness was a foreign thing to them._

_He felt a little better in the face of their excitement; they couldn't wait to hear about his first semester, and tell him all about their Uni term. It would have to wait 'till dinner time, since they were still stuck fixing half the house._

_He couldn't help the twinge of abandonment when neither his mother nor his father came to greet him, even though the wards surely alerted them to his arrival._

_The reason became obvious when he could hear muffled voices from down the hall, past his room where his father's study resided; if they were heated enough to forget a silencing charm, than they were definitely distracted enough to forget all about picking him up. He put his bags in his room, inching ever so slowly towards the voices, wondering why what he was doing. What did he think he would accomplish, barging in there? His father would only stew angrily in silence, and Harry would make obligatory excuses for them. He found himself creeping forward anyway, feeling conflicted._

_Saiph pushes off the wall eventually, as the voices die down. At least they're talking civilly now._

_Harry finds him in his room later, all the lights off even though he's not sleeping, just curled around a pillow on his bed. The familiar expanse of his magic flutters around him, tickling against Saiph's skin like a comforting caress. Saiph swallows thickly at the sight of him, the fallow crow's nest hair and the striking citrine eyes, cloak of death shimmering and silver around his shoulders. Even without the scythe or hood, he knows inherently death is at his door._

_He opens the door quietly, and doesn't wait for Saiph to acknowledge him before speaking._

_"I'm sorry I wasn't there to pick you up," he apologizes, sincerely, as he walks over to sit on the side of his bed. Despite the familiar presence, he smells foreign. He wonders where Harry has been. What he does when he's away from them. "We had a whole plan to bring signs to embarrass you and everything, you know, and then -_

_"Ceph blew half the house up?" Saiph suggested, his eyes peering out from behind the pillow._

_Harry chuckled lightly, one of his hands reaching to rub against Saiph's back. "Yeah. Exactly." He gave a dramatic capitulation, and a roll of his eyes. "And of course your father had to raise such a big stink about it," he added, in a way Saiph thought was supposed to be light-hearted and teasing, but fell just slightly flat of it._

_Saiph squeezes his pillow harder._

_"Is that why you guys were having a row?" He asks, voice small._

_Harry looks momentarily surprised that he knows, before he only sighs again, striking emerald eyes sparkling with regret. "Partly, yes." He admits. "I'm sorry you had to hear that."_

_He shrugs, fixing his gaze on the pillow wrapped in his arms. He doesn't want to say it's okay, because it isn't._

_"We're having your favorite for dinner," Harry says after a long beat, tone noticeably lighter as he tries to change the subject. "And Yorkshire pudding, of course. I figured it was only fair because all three of you are coming home for break, so you should all have your favorites. All Aster wants is an 'authentic' fish and chips, whatever that means, so -_

_"Are you staying?" Saiph blurts out. "For - for dinner."_

_Harry blinks, looking at first confused, before realization dawns on his face. "Yeah," he replies, smiling sadly. "I'm staying for dinner."_

_Saiph nods silently._

_He wishes more than anything that Harry would stay for dinner - and then stay for good._

_/_

 

_//_


	2. 水野 亜美

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the people who asked - this isn't a sad ending!

 

 

/

 

Harry was dragging his feet, and he knew it. He was dreading this, but it was a conversation they couldn’t keep tabling for later. He arrived at the dark lord’s study, staring at the doors with confliction. Harry pursed his lips into a thin line, before raising his hand to knock on the door. 

 

“It’s open,” said a toneless voice from the other side. 

 

Harry’s hand lowered before it could even make contact, a slight flush of embarrassment tinging his cheeks. How long had Voldemort known he was out here, deliberating how to proceed? 

 

Finally he just said to hell with it, and walked inside. 

 

For a belated moment, Harry wondered if this was the most painful moment of his life. Oddly enough it somehow managed to hurt even more then when Voldemort had put him under the Cruciatus Curse in his fourth year, and the dark lord wasn’t even doing anything right now but looking at him. 

 

His gaze was so intense and all-consuming it may as well have been the Cruciatus Curse; it was the same unyielding crimson color.

 

Meanwhile, Voldemort studied the uncomfortable young man in front of him with an appraising eye, completely unaware of the intensity of his stare, and what it was doing to the boy in question. 

 

He was still at a loss as to how this… unassumingly average creature in front of him could be the same awe-inspiring Master of Death Saiph spoke of in the future. For all Voldemort could see, he was a remarkably lackluster teenager. He tilted his head pensively; well, that wasn’t entirely true. He was a rather good looking boy, truthfully, and he’d somehow managed to stay alive all this time despite Voldemort’s best efforts, so clearly there must be  _ something _ there. 

 

“Um,” Harry’s voice stirred him out of his thoughts. “C - Could you stop doing that?”

 

Voldemort blinked, confused. “Doing what?”

 

The boy blushed. “Uh, nevermind.” He replied, quickly. “Anyway, I figured we should… probably… talk about this, or something.” By the time he had finished his face was as red as a tomato, and he’d suddenly found the office carpet worthy of intense study. 

 

“I fail to see what there is to talk about.” He dismissed, not even looking remotely as uncomfortable over the situation as Harry was. 

 

Harry stared at him. “Is that a joke…?” He wondered aloud, before shaking his head. “You hate me. On that note, I hate you too. We’re enemies - a couple months ago you were trying to kill me! You don’t think we should talk about that?”

 

“Circumstances have changed.” Voldemort answered, as if that actually answered anything. 

 

“Circumstances rarely change that drastically.” Harry retorted. “How do I know you’re not just going to kill me now?”

 

“Why would I go through the effort of bring you here, feeding you and providing housing for you if I was going to kill you?” He returned, perplexed. 

 

That was a good point. 

 

“That’s the thing - I have no idea why you would go through the effort. I don’t even know what’s really going on here.”

 

“Due to an unforeseen chain of events, a boy claiming to be our son accidentally time-travelled over two decades into the past. Upon confirming his claim was the truth, it was clear I needed to re-evaluate my current plans.” Voldemort explained simply.

 

Something in his explanation caught Harry’s attention. “Hold on - you confirmed it?”

 

“Of course.” The man looked somewhat offended Harry could have possibly thought otherwise. 

 

“How?”

 

Voldemort looked at him sharply. “Are you still in a state of disbelief? Judging from your actions earlier, you accepted the situation easily enough.”

 

“It’s not that,” Harry was quick to say. “It’s just - how do you know for sure? From his memories, he certainly believes it to be true. But there’s a possibility that he might be wrong, right? He could be adopted.” To be fair, Harry didn’t think that was possible either. The boy looked far too much like both of them to be anything but authentic. 

 

“Doubtful.” Voldemort retorted. “I went through the trouble of confirming the blood relation myself. Not to mention, he speaks Parseltongue. That alone confirms he is my heir.”

 

Harry sighed. “I suppose that could confirm my relation as well.”

 

Voldemort looked at him questioningly. 

 

“I speak Parseltongue too.” Harry revealed. And then, when the Dark Lord’s expression turned into one of surprise, “You didn’t know that?” Harry balked, equally as surprised. 

 

“Why would I know something like that?” Voldemort retorted, waspishly.

 

“I - I don’t know.” Harry said, when he recovered from his surprise. “I just assumed someone told you. It’s not exactly a secret.”

 

To Harry’s belated shock, he realized they were actually holding a working conversation right now. Apparently that  _ was _ possible. It probably had a lot to do with the fact that Voldemort wasn’t actively trying to kill him right now. But on the subject of that…

 

“Anyway, back to what I was saying before - I still don’t understand what your motivations are in bringing me here.” 

 

“Did we not just confirm that in the future, we share an heir? Multiple of them, on that note.“ Voldemort pointed out, looking somewhat annoyed. “Whatever personal…  _ differences  _ we may have at present, you are still the mother of my -  _ future _ \- children. That alone makes you invaluable.”

 

Harry scowled deeply. For some reason, it was completely fine whenever Saiph said it, but Voldemort pointing it out was almost unbearable. 

 

“Don’t call me that,” he snapped. “I’m not anyone’s parent - “

 

“Yet.” Voldemort countered.

 

“ _ Yet _ .” Harry agreed, narrowing his eyes. “So at present, I would prefer if you didn’t refer to me as that.”

 

Voldemort looked like he wanted to point out the logical fallacy in that, but something seemed to make him refrain. Harry knew he was being rather obstinate about it, but it still threw him off that he actually had children like that at all. He knew it was possible and all (that had been a shock) and that in same-sex couples capable of producing children, like centaurs or manticores, whoever carried the child was technically the ‘mother’, but it still felt uncomfortable to hear other people refer to him like that. He was definitely being dogmatic about it, but sue him, he had a time-travelling kid who just told him he would get married and have kids with his worst enemy, he was allowed to be in a state of denial. 

 

He would just have to get used to it, though. He supposed it was just another one of those weird Wizarding customs he’d have to come to accept. 

 

“We’re arguing irrelevant semantics,” Voldemort pointed out, conclusively ending the conversation. “You’re here because your continued existence is now imperative to me, and I have far too many political enemies that would see you dead because of it.”

 

“They wouldn’t kill me.” Harry retorted, affronted. “They wouldn’t do that! I’m -- “

 

_ On their side _ , he wanted to say. But he wasn’t sure if that was even true anymore.

 

“In the future, you will play an instrumental role in my victory.” Voldemort interrupted coolly. Harry blanched. He still didn’t know how he felt about  _ that _ , either. “To those who would see me lose, your death would therefore be instrumental to my downfall. Either you are overestimating your worth to them, or underestimating their hatred for me. Either way, the best way to ensure you safety is by keeping you close.”

 

“Keeping?” Harry repeated, annoyed. “Listen, you’re not  _ keeping _ me anywhere. And are you expecting me to stay here for the rest of my life?” 

 

“Stop being so melodramatic.” Voldemort sneered. “It’s better than your prior accommodations, is it not?”

 

Harry grimaced. “That’s besides the point.” He protested quickly. “Staying for the rest of the summer, I could understand. But do you expect me not to attend school in the fall? And what about after? By your logic, I’d be stuck here for the rest of my life!”

 

“It is not for eternity - you are completely overreacting.” Although if Voldemort had his way, that would be exactly what would happen. However, it was clear keeping Harry locked up safe somewhere would be a horrible idea. “However, while you are still unable to defend yourself, it’s better if you are under my protection - 

 

“Unable to defend myself?” He echoed with disbelief. “I’m perfectly capable of defending myself - 

 

“Really? So my memory of this summer is wrong? I distinctly recall you having to be rescued by your precious headmaster.” 

 

Harry’s expression darkened. “ _ Don’t _ talk about the Ministry.” He bit out, voice low, but even.

 

Voldemort looked surprised by the level of fury in his tone. He didn’t comment on it though; for once he showed some tact, and simply continued smoothly; “At any rate, we can discuss this further in the future. At present, we have more important things to worry about. Namely the time-travelling boy down the hall.”

 

Harry took a breath, putting aside his anger with great effort. “Right.” He agreed, once he’d regained some semblance of composure. “Do you have any idea how he managed to do it? It’s impossible to time travel more than twenty-four hours, right?”

 

“Impossible? Hardly.” Voldemort snorted, leaning back in his chair. “Difficult? Exceedingly so. All the same to say it’s impossible is a bit of a stretch. He has more than enough magic to be able to pull it off - and that’s to say nothing about his control.”

 

Harry blinked. “His control?”

 

“Or lackthereof.” Voldemort added. “With a magical core as large as his it’s no surprise a child of his age would have so much difficulty controlling it - most grown wizards would find it difficult.” 

 

Harry looked thoughtful. Then he sighed. “So you’re saying it’s possible, in theory - but there’s no precedent for it?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“So we have no idea how it could have happened?”

 

“Unless the boy decides to remember how he got here, no.” Voldemort returned, crossly.

 

“That’s not really his fault.” Harry pointed out, testily. “He can’t help his own memory loss.”

 

If anything, that just made Voldemort look even more cross. 

 

He ran a wary hand through his hair. “And  _ you _ really don’t have any ideas either?” Now that was surprising. Wasn’t he supposed to be the genius here? 

 

Voldemort sneered. “I don’t see you contributing anything.”

 

Harry didn’t even bother to take offense, rolling his eyes. “Yes, because the sixteen year old Hogwarts student would  _ definitely _ have the answers.” 

 

“Don’t blame your inadequacies on your age.” Voldemort snapped in response. “I was more than capable of pursuing a higher level of intelligence at that age, even with the handicap of the severely lacking Hogwarts library.” 

 

Harry scoffed. “That is totally beside the point right now. And anyway, why would I compare myself to  _ you _ ? Comparing you to anyone doesn’t work - mainly because no one else could ever be as egotistical, homicidal, or generally  _ insane _ as you - 

 

Harry wasn’t entirely sure what it was about Voldemort that brought out the worst in him, or what it was about him that brought out the worst in Voldemort, but before long the Dark Lord had risen from his seat, slamming his hand on the table as he glared at Harry with a gaze that could melt lesser men. 

 

“Do you have a death wish, Potter?” He hissed dangerously. “If so, I’d be happy to oblige you --

 

“You’re proving my point you know,” Harry interrupted, talking over him. “Who the hell thinks homicidal threats are an appropriate response to insults? And I don’t even know if it’s still an insult to your character when it’s  _ absolutely true _ \--

 

“It’s a perfectly appropriate response when it comes to you, Potter.” He retorted. “I doubt anyone would blame me for a few homicidal urges after having to put up with your fatuitous impudence for more than a minute -- 

 

“Put up with  _ me _ ?” Harry echoed in disbelief. “Have you even met yourself? I don’t even know how people can stand to be in the same room as you without contemplating suicide!”

 

Quite honestly, Harry was surprised it had taken him this long to start threatening him with a wand. His hand shot out to pin Harry at the end of a particularly infamous white wand, looking as deadly as he had been in the graveyard. 

 

“One more word, Potter.” He warned, lowly. 

 

It was more than enough to remind Harry just who, exactly, he was shouting at. 

 

Inwardly he decided he probably should stop pushing his luck. Outwardly he just folded his arms, looking deeply unimpressed. 

 

“Are you going to kill me, Tom?” He rose a cool brow, unphased. 

 

“The thought is certainly appealing, yes.”  Voldemort returns, coldly. 

 

To Saiph’s disappointment, he was unsurprised to hear his parents arguing, once again. It seemed it didn’t matter if he was twenty years in the past or twenty years in the future, Harry and Voldemort would forever be butting heads against each other. 

 

He hesitated at the doorway of his father’s study - the scene so different and yet so similar to the dream he’d only just woke up from. Harry and Voldemort at odds with each other; the dark lord leaning over his desk with an irritated expression, one hand planted on the surface, the other directing his wand at Harry. Harry with his arms folded and a nonplussed look on his face, holding the dark lord’s gaze without flinching. It was not the office he remembered, but the furnishings were obsolete. 

 

“Is there ever a time when you two aren’t arguing?” He asked, drawing their attention.

 

Finally they both look up from their staring match, the heated moment dissolving as Harry turns around to smile at him. 

 

“Sai,” Harry said, surprised, dropping his arms. “What are you doing up still?”

 

Saiph shrugged half-heartedly. “I couldn’t sleep.” He didn’t want to admit to having unsettling dreams - they certainly weren’t nightmares, but all the same they kept him up at night. 

 

Harry’s gaze softened. “Did you have a bad dream?” He asked, gently.

 

“No,” he lied, evenly. “I just woke up and heard you two shouting at each other.” As usual. 

 

Harry’s look turned sheepish. “We were pretty loud, huh?” 

 

Saiph said nothing, watching them with uncanny, glowing eyes. 

 

Harry shook his head. “Well, at any rate, I doubt getting into arguments at one in the morning is really going to be helpful,” he sighed, running a hand through his hair. “I suppose it can wait until morning.” 

 

He shot Voldemort a meaningful look at that. The dark lord returned it stoically, neither agreeing nor denying. 

 

Harry moved towards him, holding out his hand. “Let’s go to bed, huh? No more arguing, promise.”

 

_ Don’t make promises you can’t keep, Harry _ , Saiph thought somberly, but took his hand anyway. 

 

//

 

Harry blinked his way into wakefulness in slow increments, gazing up at an unfamiliar ceiling. It took him a while to realize he wasn’t at the Dursley’s, and even longer to remember where he was and how he came to be here.

 

He bolted upright, horrified, accidentally jarring the sleeping form next to him. 

 

Saiph made a sleepy noise, but didn’t wake. Harry sighed in relief, keeping a distance from the boy as he quietly freaked out. That was his son, next to him. 

 

Holy hell. 

 

He collapsed back onto the bed, suddenly unable to deal with any of this. He flung an arm over his eyes, wondering if he could shut them so hard this whole mess would sort itself out, and he would return to the Dursley’s, and a world where he and Voldemort had no future together, he was not destined to be with his worst enemy, and all was well with the world. 

 

But as he lay there staring blankly up at the ceiling, he came to realize he didn’t want that at all. 

 

As much as these past twenty-four hours horrified him, in a weird way, he also didn’t want to wake up to find it all was just a dream. He didn’t want to wake up to the reassuring but miserable sounds of the Dursley’s puttering about downstairs; he didn’t want to wake up to an endless summer of lassitude, locked up and so, so alone. It was no small thing, waking up next to another warm, breathing body. Even more so when he turned to look at the sleeping boy by his side, the wispy hair strewn about his pillow, the flutter of his lashes as he dreamed, his even breathing. 

 

Although he saw a lot of Tom Riddle in him, if he looked hard enough Harry could see himself, too. 

 

He pushed himself upwards on his elbows, directing his gaze out towards the room, washed in muted morning sunlight. Without casting a tempus it was impossible to tell what time it was. He wondered what Voldemort was doing.

 

After retiring from the dark lord’s study, he found himself laying in bed with Saiph, waiting for the boy to fall asleep. Instead of sleeping they ended up taking the night away, Harry finding himself too unwillingly curious to hold the questions at bay. 

 

It wasn’t as if he was asking anything serious - Voldemort had surely drilled the boy thoroughly in that regard. Harry didn’t want to know about things like the fate of the Wizarding world, workings in the Ministry, or foreign affairs; he wanted to know where Saiph grew up, what his favorite childhood memory was, his favorite toys and the one pet he always wanted to have but was never allowed. 

 

Saiph’s favorite memories are all centered around the holidays. Harry was surprised to hear that their family was very big on holiday tradition. He was happy to hear it, since Christmas time was always his favorite time of the year as well, warm fires and hot chocolate and long nights playing games with the Weasley’s. It sounded like their family Christmas’s weren’t quite the same, but carried that quiet warmth nonetheless. Still, he wouldn’t have expected that from Voldemort; the man seemed the type to despise festivities. Saiph revealed Harry was correct; his father was certainly the Scrooge in their yearly holidays, doubly so when it came to his birthday, New Year’s Eve.

 

Harry couldn’t help but laugh at that - apparently Voldemort went out of his way to make himself scarce on his birthday, as to not be ambushed by any member of his family courageous enough to brave through his bad mood (which was apparently all of them, as it turned out) so instead they would just celebrate his birthday without him. He found the idea of it particularly amusing; Voldemort cross and unhappy over his own birthday, sulking all day long only to return for the cake when he thought they were all asleep. 

 

Saiph didn’t really have a favorite toy, although he had a lot of them. Obviously as far as animals went they had Nagini, but she wasn’t really a pet. In his youth they’d gone through the gamut of pet dogs, none of them had ever made it past the six month mark, either too terrified or not terrified enough. They’d come to care for Crookshanks for a time, to Harry’s bewilderment. Really though the cat spent most of its time roaming the yard, yowling and hissing whenever someone got too close. 

 

Despite himself, Harry found himself completely enamored with the idea of it.

 

This was Voldemort he was talking about, after all, and if last night proved anything it was that they would forever be at each other’s throats. And yet, Harry couldn’t help but fall further in love with their future the more he heard about it. It… didn’t sound bad at all. Actually, it sounded like everything Harry had ever wanted. Love, affection, family, comfort, a sense of belonging… It was still so surreal to think that he and Voldemort could have that kind of future. 

 

He found himself smiling slightly.

 

For once in his miserable, short existence, the future didn’t seem all that bad. 

 

//

 

Saiph hadn’t exactly lied to Harry, or anything, but he certainly hadn’t told the whole truth. 

 

When he recounted all the happier times, he couldn’t help but wonder what happened to them. Nothing had really changed, when he thought about it. Last year, they had still had their yule time festivities. Harry had selected the most outrageously tall fir tree he could find - this year it was so tall it actually leaned crooked, careening precariously to the right. Ceph and Aster decorated it hideously - well this time they actually managed to make it look coordinated, to the surprise of everyone. And the amount of presents they managed to stuff under it was truly mind boggling. They still celebrated his father’s birthday while his father made up some ridiculous excuse to get out of it, and when he had crept past the kitchen late at night he had seen Harry and his father sitting close; his father sullenly eating his cake, Harry by his side teasing him about being such a brat about his own birthday. The scene wasn’t unusual for them at all, Voldemort long-suffering and stoic, Harry prodding him and laughing at his expense. 

 

Saiph paused, frowning.

 

Usually when that happened his father either shut him up with a solid kiss to the mouth or a particularly snarky response of his own. 

 

He didn’t know when it had changed, but at some point Harry’s remarks had stopped being good-natured and had turned bitter; Voldemort’s response had stopped being snarky and had turned into real anger.

 

To be honest, he’d been worrying himself into knots all semester over the thought of this year’s holidays.

 

Would Harry even be there? He was sure Harry could get away from his work for at least a few days, but he knew that even someone as busy as Harry couldn’t be  _ that _ busy all the time - Harry was definitely avoiding them. Well no, not them, but Voldemort. Over the summer the two of them had somehow managed to work out some convoluted schedule where they were never at home at the same time unless for some significant event. 

 

He knew being Master of Death was hard. Even harder than being the Dark Lord Voldemort, Supreme Chancellor of the Wizarding World (not that he would ever tell his father that). But Harry had always made time for his father, in the same way he continued to make time for his children. 

 

A part of him wanted to scream in frustration; why couldn’t they just get along and set aside their differences and compromise? Why did they always have to fight? Another part of him felt helpless and resigned to it all, caught in the middle with nowhere to go. They were adults, and he was just a kid. Why would they even listen to anything he had to say? 

 

“You alright Sai?” Harry asked with concern, causing the boy to blink out of his somber thoughts.

 

“Fine,” he lied smoothly, picking up his fork again. “I was just thinking.”

 

Harry watched him push around his eggs for a moment, before asking, “Have you remembered anything else yet?”

 

Saiph paused, hand stilling over his plate. He had totally forgotten about that, actually, so lost in his thoughts about his parents of the future that he’d forgotten all about the fact that he was with his parents now, decades in the past. 

 

He shook his head. “Nothing.” He admitted, defeated. “I can remember the days leading up to it perfectly well - but for some reason I can’t seem to remember anything else.”

 

Harry frowned in thought, taking a sip of his orange juice. “What’s the last thing you remember?”

 

Saiph scrunched his brow. “I remember going to sleep the night of the thirteenth. I know it was the fourteenth when I left, but I can’t remember anything about the day.”

 

“Nothing at all, huh?” Harry let out a weary breath, before smiling at him. “Well, hopefully you’ll start remembering things soon. In the meantime, we should try to find other solutions.”

 

“Other solutions?” His father finally spoke, repeating Harry’s words with a tone of incredulity. He lowered his copy of the Prophet, “Finding a solution will be impossible without know what event caused the time travel in the first place.” He pointed out, acerbically. “Until we can deduce what made the rip in time, we won’t be able to reverse the process to find a solution.”

 

Harry frowned, saying nothing.

 

“Unless, of course, you’d like to come up with your own spell that could send someone decades into the future?” He added, drily. 

 

“That wasn’t what I meant.” Harry snapped back, looking as if he’d been on edge all morning and was just waiting for his irritation to bubble over. “I was referring to his memories. Sometimes you just need something to jar it, although in this case, I’m not entirely sure what would be helpful.”

 

“His memories?” His father repeated, a curious look on his face.

 

“Well, yes. If his cognitive abilities are fine, and the rest of his memories are there, then it doesn’t appear to be a huge, unfixable problem. It just seems like there’s a block on his most recent ones. Maybe if he sees something that could remind him of something that happened on that day, then he’ll remember the rest of it too?”

 

But Voldemort didn’t appear to be listening to him. 

 

He snapped his fingers, and the breakfast table cleared. Harry spared him an annoyed look; he’d wasn’t finished with that blueberry muffin. 

 

“Come,” he said, as if he fully expected them to just get up and follow him.

 

Saiph didn’t even bother to protest, expression long-suffering as he jumped out of his chair. Harry let out a breath, before moving to follow them both. 

 

//

 

The rest of the morning found them in some sort of lab. They hadn’t wandered too far down Malfoy Manor, still well within the dark lord’s wards, but it could have been an entirely different house for all the differences in decor. Where their rooms were all plush and ornate, this looked like a cross between a dungeon and a mad scientist’s lab.

 

Voldemort steered Saiph to sit at a nearby table. Curious, Harry followed them, hopping onto the opposite edge of it, careful not to jostle any of the glass beakers on its surface. 

 

“Um, what are we doing?” Saiph asked with a look of blank confusion, even as Voldemort took out his wand.

 

Instinctually Harry seized up at the sight of it, smothering down the intense urge to haul Saiph closer to him and draw out his own wand. Evil bastard he may be, but Voldemort would never hurt his own flesh and blood… right? 

 

“I’m going to look into your mind.” He announced, much to their unified horror. 

 

Harry remembered full well how it felt to have Voldemort in his mind. “Don’t do that to him!” He retorted, deeply disturbed. “Why would you put  him through that?”

 

“As long as he doesn’t fight me, he shouldn’t feel any pain.” Voldemort returned. 

 

Saiph still looked horrified, but unafraid. Harry frowned at the boy, before turning back to Voldemort. “It’s okay, Harry.” Saiph said, cutting him off. Harry looked back at him. “It only hurts if he wants it to.” He revealed, which did nothing to allay Harry’s fears.

 

Harry looked absolutely livid. “Does he do that to you?” He asked, voice deceptively calm despite the dangerous undertone. “Make it hurt?” 

 

Saiph blinked. “Huh? Oh, no. He doesn’t use legilimency on us at all.” He scowled. “Or at least, he  _ says _ he doesn’t. Sometimes I wonder, though.”

 

Harry’s expression softened; he looked surprised, but in a good way. “Oh.”

 

“Enough of this,” Voldemort interrupted, even though Harry noticed he was equally as interested in hearing what Saiph had to say about his future counterpart as Harry was. “Look into my eyes.”

 

Saiph made a grimace, but moved to do as he was told. There was a long moment of heavy, anticipatory silence. 

 

The dark lord made a noise of intrigue. Harry’s eyes drifted over toward him, finding an interested expression on the normally impassive man’s face. 

 

“Saiph, are you an occlumens?” Voldemort questioned. 

 

Saiph blinks, before staring up at his father with incredulity. “...No?”

 

He’d love to be, but despite what everyone expected of him he wasn’t actually a genius. He was certainly gifted with an extraordinary level of intelligence, but he had to practice and work through things just like everyone else - he couldn’t even begin to imagine how difficult mastering something like occlumency would be. 

 

His father made a noncommittal noise of curiosity, swishing his wand a few more times. Saiph followed the wand movement with interest.

 

Finally he stopped whatever he was doing, lowering his wand. “I cannot read your mind.”

 

_ Well that’s a first, _ he groused silently. 

 

It was a real tragedy, living with a father who could always read your mind. His father insisted he had never used legilimency on him though, pointing out that Saiph’s expressions were telling enough. Saiph refused to believe that. Sometimes his father’s ability to catch him went beyond uncanny to just plain convenient. 

 

Harry crossed his arms, leaning back. “Is it because of the time traveling?”

 

“Possibly,” Voldemort replied, distracted. He was looking at Saiph as he would an interesting magical phenomenon; it was alarming, to say the least. “But that would give rise to a magnitude of paradoxical questions…”

 

And unfortunately, the dark lord didn’t know enough about time travel to make an educated guess. 

 

“But if that is truly the case, then there is only one other alternative.”

 

“Which is?” Harry asked.

 

“Saiph will simply have to show me his memories.” Voldemort revealed. 

 

Harry blinked, nonplussed. “How is he supposed to show you memories he can’t remember?”

 

“Obviously not those,” Voldemort snapped back. “But any other relevant memories that may provide further information on his current predicament.”

 

And then, to Saiph and Harry’s equally blank gazes. “Time travel of this magnitude does not just  _ happen _ . No magic this powerful appears out of nowhere - there are a set of events that trigger it. Some intentional, others not.”

 

“So you’re saying there might be something from before that day that could give us a clue as to what happened?” Harry realized.

 

“Yes,” Voldemort agreed, moving further into the room to disappear behind a shelf full of skulls. 

 

Harry grimaced at them, as he heard something clinking from wherever Voldemort was behind it. “Unfortunately this method will not be as precise as a legilimens combing through a person’s mind, but it is also far more detailed.”

 

“What is?” Harry asked, confused, as the man returned with a glass jar.

 

He spared Harry a suffering look. “I suppose you are not acquainted with a pensieve then, are you?” 

 

//

 

Saiph glowered. “This is awful.” He groused. “I don’t want you snooping through my memories.”

 

Voldemort spared him a deeply unimpressed look. “Do you think I  _ want _ to waste my time going through whole days worth of memories?” He countered.

 

Saiph had nothing to say to that, continuing to sit still with only a huff of annoyance. Voldemort stood behind him, a glass jar in his hand. 

 

“Concentrate, and clear your mind,” he commanded, yew wand pointed to Saiph’s temple. “And stop fidgeting, it won’t hurt.”

 

Saiph stopped wiggling about in his chair, a deeply aggrieved scowl on his face. Standing above him, his father wore an equally aggrieved expression, much to Harry’s private amusement. It was almost bewildering, how remarkably similar the two were, and with them posed like that it only further highlighted all their shared features. 

 

Voldemort scowled. “You’re not concentrating.”

 

“I am concentrating!” Saiph insisted, eyes scrunched close. 

 

“This is a pitiful excuse for concentration - 

 

“And how are you supposed to concentrate on not thinking?” Saiph all but whined.

 

“By clearing your mind.” Voldemort returned, waspishly. 

 

“You do realize that advice never works, you know.” Harry tactfully decided to join the conversation, making Voldemort cast him an annoyed glare for interrupting. 

 

Harry ignored him. “Count backwards from one-hundred.” He advised, because ‘clearing your mind’ was advice doomed to fail from the start for anyone who didn’t already know how to do it. 

 

Voldemort narrowed his eyes at him, but said nothing, returning his attention to extracting Saiph’s memories. When it appeared the boy was concentrating enough, a silvery white smoke drew out of his hair, pulled by the tip of Voldemort’s wand. Harry watched with fascination as the dark lord then directed it into the jar, where it gathered at the bottom as if it had actual substance and weight. 

 

“Are we done?” Saiph asked, looking up at his father. 

 

Voldemort did not reply for a moment, swishing his wand one last time before he stepped away with the half full jar, moving to reseal it. “Yes, we are done.” 

 

Saiph hopped out of his chair. “So what now?” 

 

“Now, I have to comb through all of these and search for anything that might explain your current situation.” He snapped, causing Saiph to rear back as if struck.

 

Since dark lords are never wrong and never apologize, he did not take back his words. He did however give a sigh of exasperation. “There is a high probability I will be able to find the answer.” He continued, in a gentler tone. “Although this method will take some time.”

 

“But you said there were some benefits to doing it this way, right?” Harry prodded. 

 

“Yes. As opposed to entering someone’s mind and searching through their memories, pensieve’s provide a broader and more detailed accounting of events. Instead of seeing through a person’s mind, one is able to enter into the memory as if entering into another world.”

 

Harry looked perplexed. “A different world?”

 

Voldemort made a disgruntled noise. “You would have to see it for yourself to truly understand.”

 

He snapped his fingers again, summoning a house elf. He commanded it to fetch him his pensieve; the terrified little thing popped away and back in the space of a second, looking as if it feared for its life. 

 

He poured a liquid memory out of the glass jar, the mist draping across the still water in the basin of the pensieve. 

 

“What now?” Harry asked, apprehensively. 

 

“This is how you enter the memory.” He explained impatiently. “Now, do you want to try it or not?”

 

Harry looked at him in surprise. Voldemort was actually offering to let him try it? “I wouldn’t know what to look for.” Harry pointed out, after a beat.

 

“I would be going with you, obviously.” He snapped. “Now, hurry up. I don’t have all day.”

 

Harry rolled his eyes. As if Voldemort had anything better to do today than figuring out a massive time travel debacle involving his eleven year old son from the future. Still he followed the man’s command and walked over to the basin, peering into it curiously. 

 

Harry looked back up at Voldemort. “What do I - 

 

But Voldemort had already unceremoniously placed a hand on the back of his head, and shoved him straight into the water. 

 

//

 

_ What an asshole _ , Harry thought.

 

Harry’s second thought after diving into the memories was one of terror. Why in Merlin’s name did he think being inside Saiph’s memories with Voldemort would be a good idea? These were Saiph’s memories of the future - a future he and Voldemort shared  _ together _ . The last place he wanted to be was here, with Voldemort. What if they encountered their future selves? Sweet Merlin, what if they encountered their future selves in a compromising position? Harry couldn’t even bear the thought.

 

He swallowed thickly, as the murky images coalesced together, sight and sound and fragments of light drifting about until it made an unfocused world. He had half a mind to resurface, but hell if he backed out now. Of course his Gryffindor courage would choose now to abandon him.

 

To his absolute horror, the watery memory came together like ink seeping onto a page; he could somehow recognize the house as the same house from Saiph’s other memories. He suddenly understood what Voldemort meant by ‘another world’. Unlike the memories the man had planted into Harry’s head, this memory seemed complete and coherent, instead of snippets of sound and image, colored with emotions. Seeing a memory through someone’s head was quite personal, whereas seeing it through a pensieve provided a bigger picture. At any rate, ‘house’ may be a bit of an underestimation -  sprawling, palatial mansion may be a more fitting description. It was exactly what Harry would have expected of Voldemort, incidentally. He found himself absently wondering if his future self had any say in picking the house - did Voldemort just ignore all his opinions? Or perhaps future Harry cared as much as current Harry did about home designs - which was to say, not at all. 

 

The memory ripples - the small, familiar figure of his young son coming to the forefront as he portkeyed to the front gate. 

 

Harry felt his stomach clench when he caught sight of the boy’s expression. He’d never seen something look so lost and alone. It tugged at his heart, and he had to swallow thickly before he was overcome with emotion. 

 

For a long moment, Saiph simply stared at the manor before him, sorrowful gaze somehow sightless, as if a part of him had drifted off somewhere. His duffel bag fell limp off his shoulder, and he released his suitcase to stand beside him - it looked as if he had no intention of actually making it inside. Harry finally looked at the rest of him; he was dressed in a Slytherin uniform, he noticed with surprise. It shouldn’t be so surprising - he’d known the boy was in Slytherin, and that he went to Hogwarts. But seeing confirmation for himself somehow made it all feel  _ real _ . 

 

He’d actually completely forgotten about Voldemort next to him. “What is he doing?” The dark lord asked, and although there was no one else he could possibly be talking to Harry wasn’t sure if it was actually directed towards him. “Why is he just standing there?”

 

Harry turned back to Saiph in the memory - he still hadn’t moved, although he was no rubbing his forehead with a forlorn expression, looking as if he was trying his best to remain stoic under overwhelming emotions. 

 

Harry couldn’t help but feel for him - he wanted to know what was wrong. He wanted to make it all better, somehow. 

 

The front door slammed open, and they both turned around in muted shock as a wholly unfamiliar girl leaned against the door. 

 

Harry drank in the sight of her. This must be his eldest daughter, then. 

 

She was… exceptionally pretty, was his first thought. She looked like the kind of girl that would turn him into a stuttering mess just by mere existence in near proximity to him. Incidentally, she also looked nothing like he or Voldemort, which was surprising but also rather relieving. It would have been far stranger if she looked like a female version of himself, or Merlin forbid, Voldemort. 

 

“Sai!” She cried, darting out the door and down the massive and imposing front steps. Harry was stunned to see she was dressed like a muggle. “How long have you been standing out there?” When did you get back?”

 

“Just now,” Saiph replied with a lie, looking like he’d recovered himself enough to mask what he was feeling behind a pleasant expression.

 

She ran past Harry and Voldemort to give Saiph a big hug, before taking her little brother’s head in both hands to vigorously mess up his hair. “Stop it!” Saiph’s outraged protest was muffled, as his elder sister laughed good-naturedly at him. 

 

She was still laughing as she released him, sauntering over to haul his bag over her shoulder. Saiph glowered at her adorably, running his hands through his hair in a futile effort to tame it. “I hate you, Aster.” He scowled.

 

“What? No one can hate me,” she replied breezily without missing a beat. “What blasphemy do you speak of?”

 

Saiph gave her an unimpressed look, as he moved to grab his suitcase. He blinked. “What’s on your face?”

 

“Huh?” Her hand went to her cheek, returning with some dark residue. She rolled her eyes. “Oh, yeah. Cepheus blew up half the house -

 

“ _ Again _ ?” Saiph said, pained.

 

“And despite my innocence, I have been made to assist him in putting it back together.” She shook her head with a dramatic sigh. She gave him an apologetic smile. “I’m sorry we couldn’t pick you up, Sai. We got stuck cleaning it up. Blame your brother.”

 

Saiph smiled brightly, but somehow Harry could tell it was completely facetious. “Oh no, it’s fine.” He shrugged it off. “I’m old enough to portkey by myself, you know.” Which was true, it wasn’t as if portkeys were inherently that difficult, but it was clear that wasn’t the issue here. 

 

“It’s the principle of the thing.” His sister insisted, voicing Harry’s own thoughts, as they made their way up the front steps.

 

After a beat, he and Voldemort followed, and the memory collapsed behind them.  

 

The front entryway grew into focus little by little, revealing a large space that was spacious and luxurious, but in Harry’s eyes it just looked grand and empty. He wondered if he and Voldemort regularly hosted galas or something. The idea made him shrivel his nose in distaste, and he was sure Voldemort would feel the same, but he wasn’t sure why else they would have such a large and illustrious house. 

 

They followed the two in silence, as Asterope peppered Saiph with questions about his semester while they walked. Harry learned that she had been a Slytherin as well, when she conspiratorily asked Saiph if he’d found all the secret corridors in the dungeons yet. He also learned that Saiph’s least favorite subject was Potions (not surprising) and his favorite was Transfiguration (also not surprising), but he was of course absolutely brilliant in all his studies, and was at the top of his class in all his subjects ( _ definitely _ not surprising). Through their conversation Aster also revealed that Cepheus had been in Ravenclaw, and despite outward appearances he was both the more bookish and more adventurous of the two. That would probably explain why he’d blown up part of the house with his experiments.

 

They finally followed the two to a fully charred corridor, with the roof blown off fully in some places. Aster had clearly been exaggerating when she said he’d blown half the house off (it was an incredibly large house) but all the same it was an impressive amount of damage. 

 

“Ceph! Where are you?” The girl called as she strolled casually through the remains. “Sai is home!”

 

If Saiph was Voldemort’s body double, then Cepheus was Harry’s. His hair was far tamer, and in general he somehow managed to look more put together than Harry ever could, but the resemblance was still obvious - he too was also dressed in muggle clothes. The similarities were so striking it was like looking through a warped mirror of some kind. However, he flashed bright sapphire eyes in their direction, grinning sheepishly at his siblings. Harry wondered where he’d gotten those. He found himself sneaking a glance at his memory-perusing companion - did Voldemort actually have blue eyes? The thought was so weird Harry had to focus on the memory around him to distract himself. 

 

Saiph’s mood practically did a one-eighty when he caught sight of his older brother. “Ceph!” He shouted, dropping his bags to rush over to the older boy. 

 

“Why didn’t I get a greeting like that?” Aster called drily from behind them as she sauntered over, but didn’t seem all that concerned. 

 

“Hey Sai,” the older boy laughed as he looked down at the young Slytherin wrapped around him. He ruffled his hair affectionately. “When did you get back?”

 

“A few seconds ago,” Saiph lied, pressed into his brother’s side. 

 

He pulled away after a moment, looking around with a nonplussed expression. “What did you do this time?” 

 

Cepheus laughed sheepishly. “Ah - I was trying out a new alchemic bonding ritual… clearly I should have set up stronger wards before I started though.”

 

At this, Voldemort’s interest piqued. The man walked past Harry, bypassing the three memory-people to scrutinize the rest of the hall closely. He spared a long glance at the blackened parts, and it was then that Harry noticed it wasn’t actually full black; there was something almost pattern-like to it. Voldemort followed it into the room Cepheus presumably had been using, as the memory continued on. Harry found himself at a loss, unsure if he should follow. 

 

“ - and this is going to take us ages to clean, because it’s apparently reactive with magic so we have to scrub it all down by hand before we can start repairing things.” Aster was in the middle of lamenting dramatically, to the nonplussed expressions of her siblings. 

 

“No one asked you to be here, Aster.” Cepheus retorted with a scowl, causing his sister to stare at him in incredulity. “You don’t have to help me.”

 

“Trust me, I don’t want to.” She retorted, matching his scowl with one of her own. “But Harry practically bit my head off earlier and he said, and I quote, it’s my fault because I, ‘wasn’t keeping a leash on you’!” She folded her arms. “When the hell did I become your keeper, huh?” 

 

Surprisingly, Cepheus laughed. “Harry has clearly given up on trying to drill some sense of responsibility in me.” Cepheus noted cheerfully. “So obviously, as the default responsible one, it’s your fault for not stopping me.” 

 

Aster looked affronted. “I didn’t ask to be the responsible one.” She hissed, leaning closer and narrowing her eyes at her twin.

 

It felt so odd to hear himself referred to in casual conversation, even though he’d experienced Saiph’s memories of his older self already. He was completely unable to connect his future self with his current self - it felt as if this person they were referring to was a completely different person. 

 

“And anyway,” she continued offhandedly, “The old man said we have to have this cleaned up before dinner, so you need all the help you can get.” 

 

Harry covered his mouth to muffle his snicker, sneaking a glance towards where Voldemort disappeared to. He wondered if the dark lord had heard himself being referred to as ‘the old man’. 

 

Saiph eventually excused himself to go put his things away, leaving Aster and Ceph to bicker away. The only twins Harry had ever known intimately were Fred and George, and in a lot of ways these two reminded him of the identical red-heads. Clearly they weren’t identical, but they still had this uncanny symbiosis between them, like something intangible but unmistakably powerful connected them together. Harry found himself simply watching them for a moment, before the memory began to grow dark as Saiph moved further and further away from him.

 

Harry looked around, but couldn’t see Voldemort anywhere. 

 

“Tom?” He called, as everything around him began to fade and crumble away. “Where are you?”

 

“Do not call me that.” A deadly voice returned, and Harry followed it into the preserved remains of Cepheus’ experimentation room. 

 

He was surprised to find Voldemort had somehow managed to freeze this section of Saiph’s memory even as the memory continued on without them. Perhaps he shouldn’t be so surprised though - he was not considered a genius without reason, after all. And he knew Voldemort was exceptionally talented in all mind arts. 

 

The man in question was crouched in the center of the room, where the elaborate pattern was far more distinct than it had been in the hall. 

 

“What is it?” He asked, looking over the man’s shoulder. “Did you find something?”

 

“Fascinating…” The man murmured, either ignoring or completely oblivious to Harry’s presence. 

 

Harry found himself smiling slightly despite himself. With such a contrary expression of thought on his face as he intensely studied the ritual remains, Harry could clearly see the young school-aged Tom Riddle in him, so focused and fixated on knowledge. 

 

“This is an incredibly difficult and complicated ritual.” Voldemort announced, standing up to his full height fluidly. “It is no surprise the boy messed it up.” 

 

The dark lord titled his head thoughtfully, gaze still focused on that same spot. “However, to get so far into such a long and difficult ritual is impressive.” He added, not begrudging exactly, but it still looked as if the praise had come out unwillingly. 

 

“What kind of ritual is it, exactly?” Harry found himself asking curiously.

 

“It is of Hindu origins, I believe.” He gestured towards an intricate and oddly hypnotic pattern of burns in the remains of the carpet. “Judging from these runes in particular. It’s base appeared to be some sort of Platinum group metal, Iridium most likely… sturdy, but therefore difficult to work with…” It appeared he had descended back into his own thoughts again. “But then why add the Xenon? To use both a transition metal and a noble gas during the primary transmutation stages is considered sacrilegious by modern alchemists…”

 

_ He’s not making any sense again _ , Harry noted silently.

 

“I have no idea what you’re saying, but I assume it’s important somehow.” He said aloud.

 

Harry half expected the man to retort with some sort of scathing remark about his level of intelligence, but Voldemort only nodded. “Alchemy in general is a difficult practice - this ritual exceedingly so.”

 

Voldemort frowned thoughtfully. “What do the older two do, exactly?”

 

Harry blinked. “They’re in university.” He recalled from his dreams, and what Saiph had already told him.

 

“I see.” Voldemort replied inscrutably. “This level of spellwork is beyond the grasp of most experienced alchemists, let alone most wizards.”

 

Harry blinked again. Was that some sort of roundabout way of complimenting Cepheus? If this was how Voldemort offered praise, it was no wonder he made Saiph feel so inadequate all the time, Harry thought with exasperation. 

 

“You can just say he’s talented, you know.” Harry offered with amusement. 

 

The dark lord scowled. “Of course he’s talented.” He retorted crossly. “He is my progeny - obviously he should succeed in everything he applies himself to.”

 

Harry managed to keep it together for a couple seconds, before he erupted into laughter. Voldemort looked at him furiously, but it did nothing to deter Harry’s amusement.

 

“Well I certainly don’t disagree. I suppose that’s one way of putting it, though.” Harry said with a smile. He had a sinking suspicion that the Voldemort of the future was actually quite proud of all his children, and if he was the type of parent who went around boasting about their kids he would do it. Since Voldemort would probably be caught dead before he voluntarily praised anyone, he had to disguise it as a backhanded insult instead. 

 

“Do you think this has anything to do with Sai’s time travel?” Harry decided a tactful change of subject might be best. 

 

Fortunately, the dark lord took his peace offering, turning away from him dismissively. “It’s very possible.” He offered, vaguely. “The residual magic in this room would certainly provide a volatile environment - but there would need to be some other kind of catalyst.”

 

Harry sighed. “So it’s not the answer.”

 

“No. But it could have been a key factor.” Voldemort agreed, looking up where the remains of the ceiling had begun to shake. It was then Harry noticed the edges of the room had begun to blur, large spots of it fading into darkness. 

 

“That’s enough for this memory.” Voldemort decided, and before Harry knew it they were somehow resurfacing back into reality. 

 

//

 

When they returned, Saiph was watching them anxiously, fidgeting in his seat. 

 

“So?” He jumped on them immediately, before Harry could even get over his disorientation. “Did you find anything? What memory was it?”

 

Voldemort didn’t seem in the mood to reply, so the task fell onto Harry. “Well, we might have, but it’s hard to say.” He replied, holding a steadying hand to his head. “And as for the memory, I think it was your first trip home since starting Hogwarts.”

 

“Oh.” Saiph seemed to deflate in relief, which was odd. Harry was still too dizzy to truly pay attention, however, and Voldemort was already pulling another memory out of the jar. 

 

Harry took a breath, the slight vertigo fading away with a rush of oxygen into his lungs. He turned to Saiph with a small smile. “Does Cepheus blow things up often?”

 

“Once a fortnight, if he’s home.” Saiph revealed without missing a beat. 

 

Voldemort stilled, turning to them with a mildly horrified look. Harry’s face split into a grin. “He’s quite the experimenter, isn’t he?” 

 

“He’s always been like that.” Saiph confirmed, a fond smile growing on his face. “He’s more curious than a cat.” 

 

“I guess that’s why he was in Ravenclaw, huh?” Harry noted with good humor, as Voldemort returned to his work. 

 

He tapped his chin. “But Asterope was in Slytherin,” he continued aloud, thoughtfully. “On the one hand, she didn’t really strike me as a Slytherin, but on the other, I don’t think any of the other Houses fit her any better.”

 

Saiph blinked in surprise. “Oh. Huh. That’s kind of true, She - Well, the hat tried to put her in Gryffindor, actually.” Saiph admitted, causing Voldemort to almost drop his jar behind them. “But she all but strangled it into saying Slytherin instead. How did you know?”

 

Harry looked just as surprised, before he shook his head with amusement. “Intuition, I guess.” He answered sheepishly. Then he laughed. “She didn’t want to be in Gryffindor either, I see. Why did she refuse?”

 

Saiph snorted. “She said there was no way she could put up with the other Gryffindors without growing homicidal.” He quoted, sarcastically, before adding; “Although now that I know what she’s talking about, and finally met some Gryffindors for myself, I can’t help but agree. I think she has a lot of Gryffindor qualities, but not enough to actually be a part of the House.”

 

Harry thought back to the girl in the memory - he could certainly see how that girl could be in Gryffindor. She seemed bizarrely relaxed and friendly for a child of Voldemort, and she had that Gryffindor charm that easily won people over. But still, Harry would be the first to admit Gryffindor’s tended to be shallow and vapid, and she didn’t strike him as the type to be so unaware. 

 

“What about Cepheus? How did his sorting go? He seems like a total shoo in for Ravenclaw.” Harry commented lightly, as they waited for Voldemort to set up the pensieve again.

 

“Oh definitely,” Saiph enthused, swinging his legs underneath his chair as he beamed up at Harry with a silly grin Harry was beginning to realize was exclusively used when talking about his older brother. “I didn’t really hear much about his, though. He’s not the type to make a big fuss out of things - not like Aster. She just went  _ on _ and on about it.” 

 

“You know for twins, they don’t seem very similar.” Harry noted wryly - in both appearance and personality. 

 

“You’re not the only one who thinks that.” Saiph concurred dryly. 

 

“Enough chitchat.” Voldemort interrupted coolly. “If we take any longer this will take months, not weeks.”

 

Saiph looked alarmed at the very prospect. Just how many memories did Voldemort plan on viewing, anyhow? When Harry voiced that question aloud the only answer he got was, “as many as it takes”. 

 

At any rate, he refused to let Voldemort go alone - and, if he was being honest, his curiosity wouldn’t let him pass the opportunity up. He was in equal parts disturbed and fascinated by this strange future he shared with Voldemort. Despite his apprehension, it was constantly -  _ pleasantly _ \- surprising him. 

 

This time, he didn’t miss the somewhat unnerved and disconcerted expression on Saiph’s face as he watched them disappear down the rabbit hole. 

 

//

 

When Harry’s vision clears he’s in the center of what is undoubtedly a girl’s room. All he has to go on is whatever brief glimpses he’s had of the Gryffindor girl’s dormitory and Ginny’s room, but it’s enough to give him the strange sensation of being somewhere familiar and yet altogether foreign. 

 

All the teenage girl’s rooms he’s seen all share a lot of similarities with teenage boys; clothing haphazard and sprawled over every available surface, bed messy, photos and posters plastered on the wall. 

 

Well, he supposes Aster and Ceph aren’t quite teenagers any more, if they’re in Uni and all, but it doesn’t look like Aster is the type to redecorate all that often. 

 

Aster is sprawled out on her bed - utterly unmade, with a few pillows alreading succumbing to the floor - engrossed in some kind of device he’s never seen before. It looks muggle; so does her current outfit, and all the clothing on the floor. Fashionably muggle, at that.

 

Voldemort makes a strangled noise of distaste; Harry isn’t sure if he’s disgusted by the mess or the outfit. 

 

Saiph isn’t wearing robes either, but his outfit is decidedly more sedated. His young son has made himself comfortable on an armchair at the far side of the room by the windows, the only piece of furniture spared from the clothing invasion. 

 

As Harry and Voldemort stand there in the center of the memory, Saiph and Aster continue on in silence, both engrossed in their current activities. 

 

Or maybe Aster isn’t as engrossed as she appears, for she calls, wryly, without looking up; “So, does poptimus prime know you have that book, or is that why you’re hiding out in my room?”

 

Voldemort chokes, just as Harry loses it and starts snickering under his breath. He’s sure his future self loves all his children - but Asterope probably has a particularly special place in his heart. 

 

Saiph grumbles. 

 

Aster finally looks up, head lolling backwards on her pillow to glance at the boy by her window. “I’ll take that as a, ‘no’?” She hazards dryly, putting down her little device. 

 

Saiph still responds.

 

“He’ll probably just congratulate you for getting past his wards,” she points out, blinking upside down at him. “Y’know, after he’s finished chewing you out. And my wards aren’t gonna hide you forever, buddy.”

 

Saiph slumps a little further in his chair, finally snapping the book shut. “I don’t get why I’m not allowed to read them anyway,” he complains with a whine. “He treats me like a little kid.”

 

“You _ are _ a little kid.” Aster reminds him unhelpfully.

 

Saiph sends her a baleful glance. 

 

“What are you looking up, anyway?” She rolls over to swing her legs on the ground, stifling a yawn. “You’ve done nothing but read ever since you got back.” 

 

“And  _ you’ve _ done nothing but play  _ neko atsume _ .” Saiph retorts, annoyed. “Anyway, I want to know more about necromancy.” Saiph says, stubbornly, causing Aster to guffaw loudly.

 

“Merlin, what is with this family and necromancy? Is it like, a curse or something?” She throws her hands up in the air. “If you want to know that badly, why don’t you just ask Harry?”

 

“He won’t tell me either.” Saiph pouts. 

 

She stands, giving a long stretch as she yawns again. “Well then maybe you should just let it go. You’ll learn it eventually.”

 

Saiph’s head whips up, as he stares at his sister in a whole new light. Asterope doesn’t notice, rubbing at her eyes as she pulls a jumper over her head and examines herself in the mirror. She makes an expression of horror when she catches sight of her hair, moving to fix it. 

 

“Aster, why don’t you just teach me?” He says, looking excited.

 

“Teach you what?” She doesn’t pay him a lick of attention, running her hands through her hair. 

 

“Necromancy.”

 

“I’m not a necromancer.” She deadpans.

 

“Yeah, but you can make portals and summon demons, right?” Saiph looks far too delighted, given the subject matter at hand. 

 

“Well, yeah.”

 

Saiph puts down his book, bounding up to her. He tugs at her sleeve, looking up at her with wide, beguiling eyes and a hopeful look. Harry is impressed with his manipulativeness; Aster is not. 

 

“Can you teach me? Please?” 

 

“I’m not going to teach you how to summon monsters from different dimensions, Sai.” She scoffs. 

 

“Not that!” He insists. “I just want to learn how to open portals. No monsters. Promise.” 

 

“Why don’t you ask Ceph?”

 

Saiph gives her a withering, nonplussed look.

 

“Okay, fair.” The girl concedes. 

 

“Please, Aster? Please?” He continues to nag, tugging on the fabric of her jumper. 

 

Asterope looks as if she’s about to tell him off again, before she thinks better of it, closing her mouth. An odd expression crosses her face - not quite regret, and not quite sorrow. Her face softens, before she sighs. 

 

“Don’t expect to learn it over the break.” She warns. “These sort of things take time.”

 

“I know.” He all but beams at her.

 

Voldemort looks like he’s just about fed up with all the feelings going around, briskly walking to the seat Saiph vacated. He peers down curiously at the book the boy had been reading, bending down to read the title written scrawled across the spine. 

 

Meanwhile, Aster has began to complain of extreme hunger, telling Saiph they can start his impromptu foray into Necromancy after she’s eaten something. Saiph promptly points out she could just get a house elf to fetch them food, but she waves him off, insisting she’d prefer to just get it herself. 

 

As the two leave her room, Harry wanders closer to Voldemort.

 

“What is it?” He asks curiously, looking over the man’s shoulder to get a better look at it. It looks rather unremarkable, but then again, it’s just a book.

 

“I’m not certain,” the dark lord says, looking as if it pains him to say it. “However, if the boy is truly attempting to learn how to rip apart the fabric of spacetime I can only conclude that - despite its location in  _ my _ library - this book came from you.”

 

“From me?” Harry echoes, perplexed. “What do I have to do with spacetime?”

 

Voldemort spares him a withering look, somehow managing to look envious and menacing at the same time. “Because you are the one who deals with other dimensions.”

 

Harry blinks rapidly. “I do?”

 

“You are the Master of Death. Or at least, you will be.” Voldemort explains impatiently.

 

“Yes, I know, but I don’t know what that  _ means. _ ” Harry retorts with annoyance. 

 

Harry thinks he’ll berate him for that too, but a pensive expression clouds Voldemort’s face. “I am unsure of what the title means myself.” He reveals, begrudging. “All I know comes from the boy. Ask him yourself if you’re so interested.”

 

_ Why wouldn’t I be interested? _ Harry thinks, annoyed. Outwardly he only nods. 

 

Voldemort whirls back around. “We’re done here.” He decides, before he disappears in front of Harry’s eyes.

 

Harry blinks, staring at the slightly shimmering spot he’d just been standing in. Now that he’s surfaced from a memory before he knows how to do it; a bit like forcing yourself awake after a nap. 

 

But for some reason, he doesn’t follow the dark lord.

 

Instead, he runs out of the room, catching Saiph and Aster in the hallway as they walk to the kitchens. 

 

It’s not all that hard to catch up to them. 

 

He gets a nice tour of his future house as he follows them, and he has to admit he is privately very impressed. Sixteen year old Harry could never decorate a house tastefully, but adult Harry was clearly capable of it. They pass rooms that are clearly only used for show or for company; pretty but empty and void of personal effects. Then there are the family rooms that are clearly lived in, with pictures and books and little ornaments decorating every surface - those all disappeared as they moved farther away from the bedrooms. 

 

It’s not until the two are seated at the kitchen island - Aster demolishing her way through a plate of crisps, Saiph halfway through a bagel - that they finally start talking again.

 

Harry is an invisible addition, wandering about the kitchen with a curious eye, inspecting everything from the furniture to the appliances. He wishes he could open up the cupboards and see what lay inside, but unfortunately he couldn’t touch anything in the memory. 

 

He’s not paying much attention to the low murmurs behind him; not until he hears his name.

 

“I’m assuming he’s the reason you want to learn,” Aster is in the middle of saying.

 

Saiph looks down at his plate, nudging it back and forth with his finger. “I guess.” He admits, sullen.

 

Aster lets out a long breath, smoothing out light hair from her eyes. “It’s not going to change anything, you know.” She says, quietly. 

 

“I know.” Saiph agrees, deflating. “But I just - I hate that I can’t see him. I hate that he’s gone sometimes and there’s nothing I can do but wait.” He bites his lip fiercely, blinking rapidly. “I feel so helpless.”

 

“You’re not the only one.” She reveals with a mournful smile. “But there’s nothing we can do.”

 

Saiph shakes his head, head lowered until his expression is obscured by his hair. Asterope sighs, reaching over to ruffle his hair. When he finally looks up, his eyes are shining. “What if he leaves, and then never comes back?” He asks, voice thick with emotion. 

 

“Harry would never do that.” She soothes, sounding absolutely sure of herself. 

 

“How can I believe that?” Saiph returns, voice cracking. “What if the next time it happens, he finally gets so fed up he just leaves? And leaves for good?”

 

Aster completely gives up the pretense of eating, turning in her chair to grasp Saiph’s hands in hers. “Sai, listen to me,” she says, looking him in the eye. “If he leaves for good, then he leaves for good, but no matter what happens he’s not leaving  _ you _ , okay? This is not about you, or me, or Ceph, or Cassi. Whatever the outcome, Harry will still be there for you.”

 

Saiph nods, even though he doesn’t look encouraged in the least. If anything, he looks even more disparate. “But it won’t be the same.” He whispers.

 

Aster smiles sadly. “No,” she agrees, voice just as quiet. “No it won’t.”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel like anyone who's ever read any of my HP/TMR stories knows my kid-canon. Also if you don't know how these names are pronounced - neither did I till I looked it up on youtube lol. 
> 
> The eldest is always a boy named Cepheus Perseus, and when he's younger he's exclusively called Flynn. Afterwards most people just call him Ceph. Cepheus is pronounced (see-fee-us) but Ceph is pronounced like seph. Sometimes he's a twin, sometimes he isn't. His name means King and Destruction. Cepheus means King of Ethiopia and Perseus means 'to destroy' or so google tells me. So I like to think his name means King of Destruction
> 
> In this one he is a twin, and his sister's name is always Asterope Alessia. She's either called Aster (for Asterope) or Lexie (for Alessia). Asterope is pronounced (ah-STAIR-oh-pea), and means starry-eyed. Alessia means Defender, or defending warrior? It is apparently pronounced (ah-LAY-see-ah). So I guess her name means starry-eyed warrior. lol
> 
> Saiph Asterion is forever the middle child. Saiph is in the constellation Orion and means sword. Asterion literally means 'starry'. His nickname is Sai. By this logic his name means starry sword. Or something. 
> 
> And the baby who I haven't really had much on yet is Anna Cassiopeia. I really like Anna for some inexplicable reason even though Voldemort would probably think it's too muggle. In this story everyone calls her Cassi. Cassiopeia I don't think really has a meaning? It's pronounced (ka-see-OH-pea-uh)
> 
> Although I did look all these up on youtube/and or google so they could be completely wrong lol.


	3. new days あなたと

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Big thanks to haisekai for inspiring me to write this in like two days lol. Nothing makes me write 20k quite like a good review

/

Harry surfaced from the memory with a sobering expression, completely ignoring Voldemort's annoyance at him for dawdling.

"I'm done for the day," He decided abruptly, cutting the other man off without even meeting his gaze. He turned away. "You can continue without me, if you want." And with that, he walked out of the room.

Saiph's eyes widened, and he immediately leapt off his stool and bounded towards Harry, who was already making out the door.

Harry hadn't moved very far, though. He was just outside in the hall, leaning against the wall next to the door, a soft frown on his face. Saiph was relieved to find he hadn't went very far, but grew concerned when he caught sight of his expression. He swallowed thickly, fearing the worst. Just what had Harry seen?

"Mum," he said accidentally, before hastily correcting himself, " _Harry_. Are you okay?"

Harry stirred to attention at his name, as if finally realizing Saiph was next to him.

"Sai," Harry attempted a smile for him, but Saiph wished he hadn't.

"Harry." Saiph frowned. "What did you see?"

Harry didn't say anything - instead he swooped low, wrapping his arms around Saiph tightly. Probably too tightly, but the young boy didn't complain at all. For a long moment, Harry didn't say anything, looking off down the hall, at something far away from them.

Finally his gaze seems to focus again. "I guess you knew the whole time, huh?" Then he shook his head. "Wait, of course you did. These are your memories, after all."

If anything, this only makes Saiph even more alarmed. "Harry," he started again, pulling away so he could face him, but Harry interrupted him with a hand in his hair.

"It's okay, Sai." Harry assured, although Saiph wasn't entirely sure who he was trying to reassure here. "I'm perfectly fine." He added, cheerily, and Saiph couldn't help but wish he would just _stop._

The little boy latched onto Harry again, his embrace as fierce as Harry's was just a mere moment ago. Harry could only hold him just as close, still wholly at a loss for words and trying to make sense of things.

"Sai…"

"I don't believe you." The boy said, stubbornly, gripping Harry tighter.

Harry sighed softly, his hands raising to thread themselves in the boy's impossibly soft hair. "It's okay, Sai, really."

Saiph didn't say anything in response. Harry frowned out into the hallway, gazing sightlessly at the long line of windows and the beautiful summer day beyond. He still couldn't… quite come to terms with it all.

He knew what it meant. It was obvious, now. Saiph's occasionally nervous demeanor, the way he would look at Voldemort and Harry warily, as if waiting for them to fight, his endless fear at the idea of them going through his memories.

At any rate, it was glaringly obvious that something was wrong before for a lot of reasons, and even more so now. The memory was damning evidence enough.

And Harry… Harry wasn't entirely sure how to feel.

He couldn't even wrap his head around _marrying_ Voldemort, let alone divorcing him. And quite frankly, he just didn't know enough about the situation to come to any conclusions. Maybe they had a happy marriage, and this was just a horrible, completely blindsiding turn of events. Or maybe their relationship had always been rocky, and this was just the inevitable ending to two very incompatible people. Harry wished he knew. If he was being honest with himself, he had to admit he wasn't surprised to hear it. The idea of a happy marriage to Voldemort was bewildering; a tumultuous future and inevitable break up seemed more likely to him.

Still, he had just been thinking earlier about how pleasantly surprising the future had seemed just a few scant hours ago. It left a bitter taste in his mouth when he came to the resigned realization that nothing about his life was, and would never, be particularly pleasant. That being said, future Voldemort and Harry's problems aside he can't imagine raising his children to be anything but an absolute joy - so perhaps it wasn't _all_ pleasant, but it certainly wasn't all unpleasant, either.

Harry looked back down at Saiph, still staring up at him with concern.

He squeezed the boy one more time. "That's enough memory hopping for today, huh?"

He mustered up another smile for the boy, as he moved to stand.

Saiph frowned at the sight of it. Harry was never very good at lying. Or hiding how he felt, "I don't think father will agree," He said, after a beat.

Harry rolled his eyes. "Yeah—no surprise there." He shook his head. "A break for lunch, then? I'm pretty hungry."

Saiph nodded hesitantly, tossing another look towards the door. Harry followed his gaze, leaning around the doorway to pop his head on the other side.

"Tom!" He called. "We're having lunch. Are you going to join us?"

Saiph didn't need to see him to know his father was sporting a scowl. "In a moment." Was his noncommittal reply.

Harry shrugged, tugging him along.

They walked in silence. Harry looked deeply lost in thought; Saiph tossed him wary glances every once in a while, biting his lip fiercely. He wondered what was going on in Harry's head. What had he seen?

"Harry…" He started slowly, just as they rounded the hallway.

"Hmm?" Harry answered, absently.

"What…" Saiph swallowed with difficulty. His hand squeezed Harry's, as he ducked his head. "What did you see?" He asked, in a small, uneven voice.

Harry looked down at him pensively. Then he sighed. "It was a memory of you and your sister." He revealed, after a beat. "You were asking to learn Necromancy. Because… well, because you wanted to see me, I suppose."

Saiph looked down guiltily. "Oh." He knew exactly what memory that was.

Harry smiled wanly. "You don't have to tell me anything," he assured, "I'm sure whatever is going on it's… not an easy thing to talk about."

He was biting his lip so fiercely Harry was surprised he hadn't drawn blood yet, averting his gaze, looking anywhere but Harry. "Yeah," he said, voice breaking a little.

Harry stared down at him sadly, feeling hopeless and impotent. His heart ached at the very sight of him, looking so forlorn and lost, even as he held Harry's hand tightly.

Saiph stopped, suddenly, in the middle of the corridor. Harry paused as well, turning around curiously. "Saiph?"

Saiph didn't say anything; his hand curled tighter around Harry's.

"I—… I don't want this." He whispered, so quietly Harry had to strain to hear it, yet his words seemed so loud and final in the damning silence around them. "I don't want you to leave. But I don't want you to be unhappy, either." He croaked out, blinking furiously.

Harry's eyes widened. Then he was dropping to his knees, hugging the boy tightly. "Oh, Sai…" He didn't know what to say. The boy clung to him fervently, as if he was half afraid Harry might slip through his fingers. And perhaps his fears weren't all that unfounded.

"I'm sorry," he mumbled into Harry's shirt, squeezing his eyes shut against the burn at the back of his nose.

"You have absolutely nothing to apologize for." Harry replied, tone absolute. "None of this is your fault."

He pulled away to get a better look at the boy; Saiph met his gaze unwillingly, eyes wet.

Harry smiled sadly, thumbing away his tears. "I'm the one who should be saying sorry." He returned, quietly.

Saiph shook his head furiously. "No!" He insisted, rubbing at his eyes. When he pulled his hands away the brilliant green gaze was devoid of tears, but the edges of his eyes were still a bit red. His expression was determined. "It's no one's fault." He said, with conviction.

Harry's smile faltered slightly. He wanted to believe that, truly. But he couldn't imagine he was blameless in this situation. It took two people to start a relationship—and it took two to finish one, also.

"Please don't be sad, Harry." Saiph continued, voice wavering slightly. "I don't want you to be sad."

Harry tilted his head. "I don't want you to be sad, either." He returned, wanly. He stared deeply into the little boy's eyes, involuntarily seeing just as much of himself in him as he did Voldemort. It always came back to him and Voldemort, didn't it? How could one man be such a blessing and a curse in his life?

Saiph nodded. "Okay." He agreed.

Although they both knew it wasn't that simple.

Harry looked up then, catching sight of the man in question rounding the corner as well. He stopped abruptly when he came across them, looking mildly uncomfortable and annoyed at the scene.

"What's going on?" He asked, frowning.

Harry shook his head, standing up quickly. "It's nothing." He lied, reaching for Saiph's hand again.

Voldemort's frown deepened, but he didn't call Harry out on it. Instead he followed them to the dining room without further remark, leaving Harry with a few moments to collect his thoughts.

By the time they were settled at the table, Saiph's features had closed up into something stoic and distant. Harry noticed the change in expression with no small amount of worry. He didn't comment on it, though. Voldemort was watching them both shrewdly. Saiph didn't stray too far from Harry's side, continuing to hold his hand under the table until he had to let go to eat. He couldn't even begin to imagine what was going on in the boy's head, even though he desperately wanted to know.

On his part, Harry was equally as lost in thought. Really he should be concentrating on getting Saiph home, but instead he was wondering all sorts of things about himself.

"Master of Death," Voldemort startled them both out of their silence. "What does that entail?"

Harry blinked, before turning to Saiph. "Yeah," he agreed at length. "Actually I was wondering the same thing."

Saiph frowned, looking momentarily at a loss. "Well, to be honest I don't really know how to explain it." He admitted. "It always sounds scary and confusing."

"Scary how?" Harry asked, finding himself holding his breath in anticipation of learning more. He'd sort of lost track of this whole 'Master of Death' thing in the face of his more personal problems, but that didn't mean he was any less invested in knowing about it.

The little boy shrugged evasively. "I dunno. I guess it's scary because I don't understand it, but it seems very important."

Harry brow furrowed pensively. From Voldemort's expression, he was equally as bewildered and confused by this explanation.

Saiph darted a shy look between Voldemort and Harry. "Ceph said that Father keeps the Wizarding World running - that it's his job to rule everyone and maintain order and stuff. And he said Mum's - err, _Harry's_ job is a little different." Saiph amended hastily, flushing slightly. "Because Harry has to keep the world running."

Harry ignored the odd tightness in his chest, still not used to hearing himself referred to as a parent. Then he shook his heads, returning his thoughts back to the topic at hand. "Running?" He asked. "The world running?"

Saiph scratches his cheek. "I think you keep everything running." He said.

Voldemort narrowed his eyes. "In the most recent memory we saw, you were reading a book." He started, as if on a different tangent, scrutinizing the boy closely. "What was it?"

"Book?"

"A book you weren't supposed to be reading," Harry added, drily.

Saiph looked a bit sheepish. "Oh. That was the _Apophthegmata Patrum_." Harry stared at him blankly. Fortunately Saiph soon elaborated; "It's also known as the _Sayings of the Desert Fathers._ It's not really a spell book. I guess it's more like -

"A collection of wisdom stories," Voldemort finished for him, expression shrewd. Saiph nodded.

Harry still didn't quite understand how a book of stories would be connected to Necromancy and dimensional traveling. "Well, whatever it might be, it was also clear you weren't supposed to have it." Harry pointed out, causing Saiph to laugh nervously. That was another thing; why would he (or Voldemort) have kept the book separate for safe keeping, if it was just about mythological stories?

"That's true." Saiph admitted bashfully.

Harry tilted his head curiously. "And why, exactly, are you not allowed to read it?"

Saiph paused, frowning. "Well, after reading it, I'm not really sure why you guys had it locked up. It was interesting, but kind of useless."

"Useless?" Harry repeated.

"Yeah - it's just a bunch of stories." Saiph scrunched his nose. "Honestly it was a lot like reading the Bible or something."

Voldemort tented his hands on the table, looking both fascinated and contemplative. "Ancient Egyptians are considered the forefathers of Necromancy." He began, once again as if he was going on an entirely different tangent. "The Desert Fathers, and the sayings themselves that are recorded in the text are not particularly useful, that is true, but they are the basis for many dark rituals."

He leaned back, adding seriously, "It might not have seemed like it, but those words have a power of their own; the original text is in the Coptic language, a language related to Ancient Egyptian. More likely than not those passages are actually incantations for very dangerous rituals."

Saiph looked at him with wide eyes. "Oh." He said, at length.

He narrowed his eyes. "You didn't try any of these rituals for yourself, did you, Saiph?" His tone is deceptively calm.

Saiph shook his head rapidly. "No, I swear I didn't!" Then he frowned, looking down at his plate with a worried expression. "But I guess… I might have, right? I might just not remember."

Harry frowned, equally as worried. That didn't sound good.

Voldemort looked less than pleased. "Then we are once again left with nothing but speculation." He said, annoyed.

Harry let out a breath, not as irritated as Voldemort, but disheartened nonetheless. Saiph looked down with a guilty expression; Harry caught it out of the corner of his eye, moving quickly to reassure the boy.

He smoothed a hand over his forehead, brushing the hair out of his eyes as he smiled down at him. "It'll be fine, Sai." He promised, warmly. "You don't have to worry."

"It's all my fault," he mumbled.

"Of course not." Harry replied, looking amused. "It's not your fault at all - people make mistakes, Sai. Accidents happen. It's okay."

Saiph smiled unwillingly at that. That was such a Harry thing to say.

He knew that was true, but he couldn't help feeling a strange knot in his chest. It felt like guilt, maybe, or regret - mixed with an unhealthy amount of fear and terror. As if a part of him he couldn't remember was trying to warn him of something.

He pushed his plate away, suddenly losing his appetite.

"Sai?" Harry asked, worried.

"I'm not really hungry." He explained, weakly. "Um, I think I'm going to go lie down."

He hopped off his chair, making himself scarce in record time. Harry could only blink after him, bewildered. Were all small children this mercurial, or just his own?

The wizard shook his head. At any rate, leaving Saiph alone right now sounded like an awful idea, so he set down his utensils as well, pushing his chair out from under the table. Voldemort frowned at him. "What are you doing?"

Harry spared him a nonplussed look. "I'm going to make sure he's okay."

"Why wouldn't he be?" Voldemort asked, confused - completely missing the point, as usual.

Harry just shook his head, unsurprised to find the man unable to understand emotional turmoil when he saw it.

"Where are you going?" He demanded, when Harry turned away without a word.

"I'm going to go check on him." Harry repeated, simply.

"What about his memories?"

"I'm sure you can handle them yourself." Harry returned dryly.

"Potter," the dark lord frowned. "If both of you are just going to run off gallivanting who knows where and no one else is going to put forth any effort, I'm not going to waste my time with this endeavor either."

"Not put forth -?" Harry repeated, blankly. Then his expression turned cross. "I'm not doing this because I want to slack off," he snapped, impatiently. "I don't know if you're just blind or willfully ignorant, but that boy is _not okay_ right now. And when someone's hurting like that - especially someone you love - you don't just sit here and brush it off and continue on with whatever you're doing."

This causes Voldemort to frown. It looks as if he doesn't know whether to berate Harry or not. Harry couldn't tell.

To be fair, neither could the man himself.

The dark lord was not a fan of affectionate sentiment. He found it all to be droll and disturbing. He hated seeing it, he hated whenever people tried to fawn over him in the same manner, and he refused to believe he had it in him to ever debase himself in such a crude and loutish manner. And he could proudly say for the entirety of his life he'd never once ever thought of love with anything but disgust.

And yet, seeing it passionately blaze in Harry's eyes made him feel very peculiar.

He was sure it had less to do with the sentiment and more to do with who that sentiment was aimed towards. It was all too personal - too close to home. Saiph was his. Obviously. Contrary to whatever Harry was accusing of him now, he was not blind or willfully ignorant. There was no point in denying what they both knew to be the truth; at some point in the future, they were going to get married and have Saiph and all his siblings. But it was this same truth that was making Voldemort have mixed feelings.

Saiph was his son, so it seemed reasonable that he would be pleased to see Harry so protective of him. That was human nature, was it not? Of course he would want Harry to love him, because if he loved him he had more incentive to want the boy alive and see him into a healthy adulthood. So really he was just protecting his lineage.

It had nothing to do with the fact that Saiph looked so much like him, and every time he saw Harry and him together he was always struck with the odd impression of seeing his younger self. Except a young Tom Riddle would never have anyone shower him with this much affection and concern. There had never been anyone who would stop the whole world just to comfort him. Who would immediately run after him when he ran off to cry.

But it wasn't as if he was jealous, so he wasn't sure why it always felt so strange.

"Fine," he sighs, finally. "I suppose the boy's wellbeing must be seen to first."

Harry doesn't look all that surprised or satisfied with that answer, but he only turns to escape through the doors before the man could attempt to call him back.

/

Harry found the boy in a mostly unused sunroom, staring sightlessly up at the ceiling, sprawled across an ornate chaise. It didn't take much to coax the boy into doing something else. Harry wasn't sure what else to do, so he suggested they go outside.

"...Outside?" Saiph repeated, blankly.

"Sure," Harry nodded, smiling in what he hoped was an encouraging manner. "It'll be fun! It's such a nice day outside."

"What are we going to do outside?"

"Dunno," Harry shrugged. "But at the very least, we can mess up Malfoy's lawn."

Saiph grinned at that, and summarily agreed.

This was how Harry and Saiph spent the rest of the day outside, which ended up brightening both their spirits. They didn't actually get around to ruining the Malfoy gardens - the breeze was pleasant enough but that much physical activity in this heat sounded exhausting. The incorrigible humidity has burned away with the afternoon heat, so they take refuge under the shade of Malfoy Manor's many awnings, whittling the daylight away lounging on the patio.

Saiph was a big fan of Wizard's chess - Harry knew enough about it from Ron to at least attempt to humor him with a game, but it's fairly obvious Saiph is far better than he is.

 _I wonder if he and Voldemort play a lot in the future,_ Harry can't help but wonder, as Saiph tried to teach him the basics. Or rather, the basics if you were already an astounding genius and regular player.

"Harry," Saiph whined, when it became clear Harry was once again distracted. "I told you, it's always better to move your knight here when someone plays directly in front of you." He taps the spot in question with his own knight.

"Huh?" Harry blinked out of his thoughts, before smiling sheepishly. "Right, right. Sorry Sai, I'm not much of a chess player."

Saiph harrumphed. "Yeah, I know." He agreed, moving Harry's piece for him. "The only thing you like to play is Quidditch."

Harry brightened at the thought. "Do you want to play?" He asked, excitedly.

Saiph spared him an odd look. "Right now?" He said, grimacing. "It's so hot."

"Oh." Harry deflated a bit. "Good point." Playing Quidditch right now would be miserable - cooling charm or not.

"Do you like Quidditch?" He asked then, because he realized he actually had no idea whether the boy even liked the sport or not. He'd just sort of assumed.

Saiph looked a bit pained. "I like flying." He offered, meekly.

Harry smiled wanly. "Not Quidditch, though."

Saiph shrugged. "Seeker is okay," he allowed. "But I don't like having to bother with bludgers all the time - they're so annoying."

That startled a laugh out of the older boy. He leaned back in his chair, as a fine summer breeze swept them by. "Fair enough." He agreed. "Do any of your siblings play?"

"Not really." Saiph replied. "Aster thinks sports are a waste of time and effort and Ceph would rather stay inside and read."

He paused for a moment. "Cassi likes playing." He revealed, after a beat. Then he scrunches his nose. "I think she only likes hitting people, though."

Harry laughed. "Got a bit of a mean streak, has she?" He's a little charmed by the thought. He can imagine a little girl version of Voldemort, standing with a beater's bat in stockings and a dress. He's not entirely sure why he finds the thought so endearing - Voldemort as a little girl should sound horrifying, not cute.

But it does make him wonder about his youngest. Asterope had light hair, although her eyebrows were darker so she may very well just like to dye her hair. He wonders what his younger daughter looks like. He supposed she would look a lot like her older sister, although to that end, Harry wasn't sure about how Aster looked, either. She didn't look like either of them. Well, she had the same striking, ice blue eyes as her twin brother - which he assumes she inherited from Voldemort. They definitely weren't identical twins though, because Ceph was certainly a Potter through and through and he couldn't really see much of himself in her.

He sighs, giving it up as a lost cause.

With Ceph and Sai it was very apparent what features came from whom, but with girls it seemed to be a whole different story. He always thought of girls a lot like he thought of aliens, so it was no surprise the idea of having girls of his own was so hard to wrap his head around.

Saiph looked at him with a deadpan look. "You have no idea." Was all he had to say on the matter, returning Harry to the topic at hand.

He supposed he would simply have to continue his fruitless and endless guessing on his youngest, or just wait until he saw her for himself, since it was clear he wouldn't be able to figure it out on his own.

Harry fiddled with one of Saiph's many captured pawns, giving up the pretense of playing entirely. "Who do you usually play Wizard's chess with?" He asked, off-handedly. "Your brother?"

"Sometimes." Saiph allowed. He looked mildly uncomfortable, fidgeting in his chair. "I… usually play with father."

Harry looked up, surprised. "Really?" He supposed he could see that. He couldn't imagine Voldemort being _bad_ at the game, and it sounded like the sort of refined extracurricular activity the man would indulge in.

Saiph nodded looking happy at the thought, a tiny smile on his face

"Well, that's nice." Harry smiled sunnily, genuinely meaning that. He could imagine that it must have been nice for the both of them.

He was just about to ask more on the subject when he looked up and saw Sai's nostalgic smile drift away, leaving him looking conflicted and uncomfortable. After a beat Harry's own smile fell, and he looked away awkwardly. He'd forgotten about the less desirable parts of the future. From Saiph's expression, it seemed as if it had been on his mind this whole time.

"Yeah," the boy agreed after a while, still looking uncomfortable.

Harry steeled his determination. He knew he had said he wouldn't bring it up… but he also couldn't stand to watch the boy struggle and not try to help.

"Listen, Sai." He started, after a long beat of tense silence. "Whatever is… um, going on between Voldemort and I - whether now or in the future - it's… it's between us, okay? You've done nothing wrong. It's okay to still like him. It's okay to say you like playing chess with him. You're not betraying me or anything."

Saiph blinked at him.

Then he ducked his head, rubbing his eye with the back of his hand. "Why do you always have insightful things to say, even when you don't know what's going on at all?"

Harry recoiled immediately. "I'm sorry," he rushed to say. "I'm not trying to sound insensitive or anything, I really just -

Saiph jumped out of his chair, rushing over to crawl into Harry's lap and throw his arms around the older boy, abruptly cutting Harry off. He wasn't sure if this was a good response or a bad response, so he just wrapped his arms around the boy and didn't say anything.

A sad look crossed Harry's face. He was starting to notice that Saiph needed a lot of reassurance and affection - now he knew why. Truth be told he was starting to severely dislike his future self. And Voldemort. Both of them, really. Couldn't they see how much damage their own internal conflicts were causing to their kids? Maybe not the older two; they were grown up and out of the house for the most part. And it sounded like Saiph's little sister was too young to understand it, but Saiph was at the perfect age to be fully aware and caught in the middle of it.

Saiph didn't have to say it out loud, but Harry could see it all anyhow. Mainly because he could relate. Eleven was such an awful time to be starting school; the whole process was overwhelming enough as it is, what with growing older and more conscious of the world around you, losing the naivety and innocence of childhood. And on top of that he was starting at a new school, away from everything he's known so far in his life.

Anyway he wasn't trying to make the boy feel bad, or bring up any sad memories - he had just wanted to make sure the boy knew he loved him. And he was sure his older self felt the exact same way, despite whatever misgivings he may have with the boy's father.

"I know all that," Saiph murmured, into his neck. "You've told me that before… but I still feel like…"

"Like you have to choose?" Harry filled in, gently. He'd never been through a divorce, but he could imagine that seeing his two parents fight with such animosity between them would cause Saiph to feel like he had to pick a side.

Saiph nodded silently, his forehead resting against Harry's shoulder.

"Sai, I guarantee you that's not the case at all." He promised. "The last thing I would ever, _ever_ want is for you to have a bad relationship with your father. I'm sure you know I love you very much, but that doesn't mean I want you to only love me. He's your dad, you know, and he loves you too."

Saiph made a vague noise of assent, tiny hands clinging to Harry's shirt like a lifeline.

It seemed like Saiph really needed to hear this, although Harry could infer that he's heard it all before. Harry supposed he just had to keep telling him and showing him until he believed it; and he was sure his future self must think something similar. Recently he's begun to think he doesn't understand his future self at all, but he's pretty sure that despite all this master of death business he doesn't understand, and whatever else his future self has been through, his stance on family wouldn't change.

Even now. He could hate Voldemort all he liked, but he would be devastated to hear that Saiph felt the same. He certainly was no fan of the man, but Saiph was his son too. And he couldn't imagine what it would feel like to have your own kids hate you. Or what it would feel like to think that the person who was supposed to love you unquestionably and irrevocably didn't actually care about you at all.

"You understand, right, Sai?"

"Uh-huh." Saiph agreed, quietly.

Harry continued to tenderly stroke the boy's back. "You can tell me all about your father. I'd be happy to hear it."

/

Unbeknown to both of them, the man in question had been there the whole time.

He'd went off in search of his wayward…charges ( _family)_ when it became clear they weren't going to return in a timely fashion. The dark lord had assumed Harry would be able to handle whatever tantrums the boy might be having, but as the hour grew later he began to have his doubts. He wasn't _worried._ Of course not. He was just… curious. And annoyed. And maybe, unwillingly, perhaps a little apprehensive. Harry had made it sound like such a big deal, after all, even though he was sure children were prone to overly dramatic tantrums at that age.

As it turned out, he needn't have worried. Harry proved himself to be oddly capable of handling the situation, even being the sixteen year old boy he is, who shouldn't have any insight into the minds of full grown adults.

He found them on the patio, striding over just in time to catch the tail end of whatever Harry was saying.

"The last thing I would ever, ever want is for you to have a bad relationship with your father," Harry was in the middle of saying, which already put him on alert.

They're talking about him?

He drew closer, making sure to keep to the shadows of the grand pillars behind where the two of them were lounging. Harry was speaking so softly it was difficult to make out what he was saying.

"- He loves you too, you know." Harry continued.

The boy nodded from where he was gathered up in Harry's arms.

He's not sure if he wants to hear the rest of this conversation - scratch that, he's fairly sure he doesn't want to hear it, _at all_ \- but he's also not the kind of person who would ever choose to remain ignorant, even if that meant knowing things he would never want to know.

"You can tell me all about your father," Harry was saying, when he tuned back into the conversation, "I would be happy to hear it."

For a boy who hated him so deeply, he seemed very genuine about that.

Saiph made a noncommittal noise.

"So, you guys play Wizarding Chess?" Harry prodded delicately, trying to help the conversation along.

"Yeah," Saiph agreed, still sounding somewhat unwilling to elaborate.

"What else do you guys do together? You went to Wizarding primary school, right?" Harry confirmed.

"Uh-huh," Saiph concurred.

"Did he ever help you with your homework?"

For some reason, this made Saiph start to shake with laughter. Saiph pulled away, looking like he was fighting a smile as he rapidly shook his head. "No," he drawled, looking mischievous.

"No?" Harry smiled back. "Why not?"

"Well, he's not very good at being patient." Saiph pointed out.

Voldemort couldn't really deny that.

"Yeah, I can imagine." Harry laughed.

"I think he gave up on that with Ceph and Aster," Saiph confided. "Ceph said Aster used to make him _so_ mad, because she would never take it seriously. Neither did Ceph, but I guess she never bothered to hide it."

Harry looked very amused. "Is that so?"

"Cepheus never took it seriously because he was always far more advanced for his year. So he would sleep through all his lessons. Asterope was the same way… but Aster tends to… not really care about being subtle if she thinks it's not worth the effort." Saiph revealed, sheepishly.

Harry nodded along, relieved to see that talking about his older siblings seemed to have relaxed Saiph somewhat. He was no longer clinging desperately to Harry, but was instead simply lounging on his lap, looking content.

"I'm sure that simply _delighted_ your father," Harry commented, drily.

"Aster always makes him mad." Saiph sighed. "I think she does it on purpose."

From his spot behind the pillar, the dark lord's brow twitched. Was that so?

Harry blinked. Then his lips curled up, eyes sparkling in understanding. "That's how they show affection for each other, huh?"

"Apparently." Saiph shrugged. Then he looked away, reverting back to his earlier shyness. "...I don't really like it when he's mad." He said, quietly.

This gave Harry pause. He brushed the hair out of Saiph's eyes - there was always this adorable piece that curled right across his forehead, that Harry couldn't help but always smooth out.

"Does it scare you?" Harry asked softly.

Saiph nodded.

They were quiet for so long that the dark lord actually peered around the corner to see what they were doing. Harry was simply staring at the boy, looking conflicted as he frowned slightly.

"But, he's never…" Harry trailed off. "I mean, he doesn't -

"Oh, no." Saiph seemed to catch on to what Harry was trying to say. "It's not like that. He doesn't curse us or anything. He's just… really scary when he's mad."

He was a little annoyed that Harry thought he would just toss dark curses at his own children like that. But then he realized he had never really given Harry any reason to think otherwise.

"He yells a lot." Saiph added, meekly.

Harry looked relieved. "Well, that sounds normal to me."

Saiph shrugged. "Yeah," he agreed, evasively. "Sometimes it's really scary though… but he never gets that mad because of us. Err… but maybe that's normal too? Well, there was this one time he was so angry he broke all the windows in the house - ah, but Cassi did that too once, when she was throwing a temper tantrum. It was scary, but I guess it was just really startling. I don't know how angry you have to be to make windows break like that."

Saiph cut his rambling off when he noticed Harry staring at him with wide eyes. "Um… or we might also just have very weak windows?" He added, sheepishly.

Harry seemed to drag himself out of his stupor, shaking his head. "Maybe you're right," Harry agreed, although from his quirked lips it was clear he wasn't being very serious. "Maybe the house just has bad infrastructure. After all, your older brother managed to blow the roof off, right?"

Saiph giggled. "There was also the time he flooded the basement, and caused something called 'dry rot', and made us all have to move out of the house for a whole week while it was getting fixed. He said he was trying an experiment with sharks? So he turned the whole basement into an aquarium because I guess they need a lot of water."

Harry laughed hysterically. Voldemort was not nearly as amused.

"Oh _no_!" he exclaimed, as he wiped his eyes. "Well I guess that's no surprise - they do live in the ocean after all."

"Yeah! He and Aster snuck out and went all the way to Mozambique to go get them, so they got in trouble for that too."

Harry snickered. "Well what ended up happening to the aquarium?"

"Father had to return all the aquatic animals to their original homes… Ceph had a whole ocean going on, because sharks need little tiny fish to eat and the little fish need coral and the coral need… pollens? Polyps? Well anyway, so there were a lot of animals that had to be put back."

"They got in a _ton_ of trouble," Saiph ended, hiding his laughter behind his hand. "But I got to keep a seahorse! He's in my room."

"I guess at least one good thing came out of it," Harry remarked, with humor. "And what happened to the poor sharks?"

"Oh. Well it was really only one shark. It was a whale shark -

"A _whale shark_?" Harry interrupted, balking. "Merlin! How did he even get it in there in the first place?"

"Well it was a baby at first." Saiph explained. "Ah… but then… it grew."

"I'm sure it did." Harry guffawed loudly. "How exactly did he get it out of there?"

Saiph scratched his head. "Well…"

The dark lord moved away then, as Saiph began to attempt to explain how his future self would manage to get a twenty-foot, forty-thousand pound animal out of his basement. Whatever problem was bothering the boy from earlier seemed to have been solved.

Voldemort shook his head with a sigh. Future fish catastrophe notwithstanding, it appeared he had nothing to worry about.

/

It occurred to Harry after the fact that this was the most he and Saiph had ever discussed Voldemort in depth. Sure, they talked about him in a roundabout way; it was hard not to, since he was part of the family and all. But Harry had never really made it a point to ask about him, mainly because Harry himself really didn't want to know.

But it was clear the afternoon had done a lot of good for Saiph's relationship with the man. Being reminded of all his humorous and fond memories of his father seemed to make the boy more at ease in his presence. At dinner that night he was far more talkative than usual, and Harry was struck by how… familial it made everything seem.

He had never experienced it for himself, but he assumed this was what a normal family dinner must feel like. He'd never had a family, so he wouldn't really know.

It was - really nice.

Voldemort seemed to be on his best behavior - or at least, he was not as uncharitable as usual - and even indulged the boy with a question or two. For some reason, the dinner topic was revolving around medieval historical figures, a topic Harry found as interesting as drying paint. Still he was more than happy to simply sit there with them and enjoy the moment. And Saiph was apparently very interested in the medieval era catholic church - although it seemed to be more of a morbid fascination. Either way the young boy looked relaxed and content, making Harry realize that Sai must have been anxious this whole time. Harry was sure he probably was still anxious, what with being stuck twenty years in the past, but he seemed to be in far better spirits about it knowing both Harry and Tom loved him very much and were here to support him.

Harry eyed the man across the table from him with a speculative look. He was halfway into a lecture on the greediness of the Vatican, completely oblivious to Harry's gaze. Oh, Voldemort could deny it all he liked, and Harry was sure he would, loudly and frequently, but Harry knew without a shadow of a doubt that Saiph's father loved him. He appeared to have a very roundabout and odd way of showing it, but he made an awkward attempt all the same. The dark lord might not even know it himself yet, but Harry was not nearly so ignorant in matters of the heart.

Despite the astounding lack of progress on the time-traveling front, Harry thought he had a very fulfilling day anyhow.

Voldemort makes noises about sorting through more memories after dinner, but both Saiph and Harry are reluctant to do so. He knew they have to do it eventually, but for right now he doesn't want to interrupt the moment. Saiph looked infinitely relieved when Voldemort eventually gave up and conceded to starting first thing in the morning.

"Sai, why are you so concerned over what we'll find in the memories?" Harry asked quietly, when Voldemort had retired to his study to attend to all the matters he had pushed aside in favor of spending time with them. It actually made Harry's chest grow very warm, when he realized that Voldemort had, more or less, completely discarded his usual dark lord business in favor of them.

At any rate he was not here now, and Harry took the opportunity to ask what had been on his mind for some time now.

He hadn't wanted to bring it up with Voldemort around because he felt reluctant to reveal to him the real circumstances of their future. Quite honestly he didn't know what he should do; should he follow Saiph's lead and speak nothing of it? Or should he confront the dark lord now, and see if maybe they could work together to come up with a solution to a problem that hadn't even come up yet. Harry didn't know, so he thought it best to avoid that whole scenario entirely.

Saiph fidgeted in the way Harry was starting to realize meant he was nervous or reluctant. "Well… to be honest, I don't really know." He admitted, quietly, as they strolled their way through the gardens.

Harry knew nothing about stars, and seeing as though all his children were named after stars or constellations, he figured it might be a good idea to get acquainted with them. Fortunately Saiph was pretty well versed in constellations, so he offered to teach Harry. The night sky was clear and bright tonight, so they decided to see what else Malfoy Manor's lawns had to offer.

Harry turned to the boy. "You don't know?"

"I just get a bad feeling whenever I see it."

"What, the memories?"

Saiph shook his head. "Yes. No. I don't know - all of it. The little glass jars with smoke in them, the big bowl swirling with memories, the cabinet full of vials…I'm not sure why."

Harry pursed his lips. He didn't think that was a normal reaction. It sounded as if Saiph's subconscious was reacting to the memory hopping quite negatively, even though the boy himself didn't know why. Maybe Saiph had a bad experience he had buried in his mind?

Or maybe this was one of the things he had forgotten when he lost his memories to time travel?

"That sounds important," Harry remarked, after a beat. "It gives you a bad feeling, huh? We should probably tell Voldemort. Why didn't you say so before?"

Saiph shrugged. "I thought it would seem silly to say I had a bad feeling about it, without any reason why."

"I think, since you don't have your memories, your feelings are going to be very important." Harry advised quietly. "You might not consciously be able to remember what happened before you came here, but it seems as if there's a part of you somewhere that does."

Saiph nodded silently, biting his lip. "I've… had a bad feeling this whole time, really." He admitted.

Harry blinked. "What?"

"I dunno, I could just be anxious because of, you know, like accidentally time traveling. But I keep getting this feeling like I'm forgetting something very important." He paused, brow furrowing. "You know that feeling when you're in a hurry and you feel like you've forgotten to do something?"

"Absolutely," Harry answered with total understanding. That was exactly how he felt after end of term exams; he spent every waking hour prior to them cramming for the tests, to the point that he didn't know what to do with himself once they were over. It always felt as if he should be studying or something, even though he didn't have to study anymore.

"It feels like that." Saiph disclosed, frowning deeply. "I keep getting this urge to _do_ something, but I don't know what."

Harry observed the boy, considering him thoughtfully. It was really starting to sound like Saiph had come here on purpose. It was just a hunch, though, so he could be wrong. And not to mention, even if it was true Saiph sent himself back in time intentionally, they still didn't know why he did it.

Harry sighed heavily. "Saiph, do you think you did this to yourself intentionally?"

The boy stiffened, looking away. Almost absently did Harry reach for his hand, walking together silently through the garden, holding hands. It made Harry feel oddly wistful; he wondered if his future self got to do this often. He hoped he never, ever learned to take this feeling for granted.

"I dunno," the boy whispered. "In some ways I think so, but I can't imagine what could have driven me to do it. I just… time traveling seems rather extreme, don't you think? And as far as I know, they've yet to figure out a way to do it—and I certainly wouldn't know it even if they did, so it must have been an accident."

Harry could see the truth in that logic. Anyhow, an eleven-year old finding a way to time travel where all other wizards have failed seems a bit excessive, even if the boy in question happens to be a genius.

"I'm sure we'll figure it out." Harry assured him. "Quite honestly, I'll be surprised if Voldemort doesn't have it solved in a week."

Saiph ducked his head. "He does like solving things," Saiph said in agreement.

Harry smiled. "See? You have nothing to worry about, whether it was an accident or intentional—it'll all work out okay."

They spent a little longer out in the gardens, enjoying the cooler temperatures. Harry didn't get to spend as much time stargazing as he would have liked, although he did learn that Saiph is a star in the constellation Orion. Saiph didn't really know why he was named that, but he did know that the name comes from the Arabic _phrase saif al jabbar_ —the sword of the giant. He knew quite a bit about the star itself, more than Harry even knew what to do with, and seemed really excited to talk about it. Harry didn't know the difference between stars; they all looked the same to him. Well, some were brighter than others he supposed.

Saiph insisted that there were lots of different stars; there were red stars and white stars and blue stars—but the blue stars were always the biggest, which was why they were called blue giant stars. He said the sun was actually tiny in comparison to stars like Saiph or Asterope; he explained that it was the same as comparing a snitch to Malfoy Manor. Harry had never taken Astronomy, and whatever he remembered from his muggle science classes was minimal at best, so he had a hard time understanding that. He supposed one day he would understand stars and space and galaxies quite well, but for now he was just a human on planet Earth staring up into the night sky and trying to grasp just how big everything was up there.

At any rate, Saiph appeared well versed in stars and astrophysics, spouting off all sorts of equations that Harry didn't even bother to keep up with. He wished they could stay out here all night, but it was getting rather late, and Saiph was looking sleepy despite his protests to the contrary.

It was an oddly exhausting day; by the time Harry had readied for bed he'd realized he was just as tired as Saiph. The boy snuggled in beside him when he crawled under the covers. He had his own room but he seemed to prefer having Harry close by, and quite honestly Harry couldn't say he was complaining. He liked having Saiph close by, too.

Harry watched the young child drift off to sleep, eager to follow him.

He found himself turning restlessly in his bed that night, despite his efforts to fall asleep, his head too full from earlier today. He couldn't stop thinking about it - about any of it. All the questions and confusion and realizations overwhelmed him, had him staring up at the ceiling for hours. He just wanted to close his eyes and sleep, think of nothing for a while, just a few hours of relief before he would have to open his eyes and face all of it all over again in the morning. There was still a small part of him that wasn't quite over the fact he was going to marry his worst enemy, one he didn't think would go away any time soon no matter how much he tried to consciously accept it.

When he finally did find sleep though, it was the farthest thing from a reprieve.

/

_Harry finds himself reluctant to return home._

He damns himself for it, but he feels something maudlin and forlorn blossom in him regardless at the mere thought; something that makes him feel uneager and unwilling no matter how much he hates himself for thinking it. It's his home. He'd never had a home before, not like this. His home is his haven; the only place he always wants to be, the only place he belongs. It's the place he longs for when he finds himself lost between worlds, with nothing to hold onto but his forever fading sense of self.

But home is intangible—transitory. It exists as both a feeling and a place, tied to the floating strands of cherished memories, people, and love.

He wonders if he's lost that place. If home is somewhere he can't return to anymore, even as his feet land soundlessly on the balcony outside his bedroom.

Harry stares up into the night sky, tracing the familiar patterns of diamond lights; he looks for the places lost in space, the places he's been, the places he knows he must go.

Finally his gaze drops from the infinite sky, to the dotting trees and winding garden paths below. He smiles fondly as his eyes catch on the wooden swing tied to the eaves of a sprawling willow tree—he can see Cassiopeia's form in the fading light, reading a book by wand light. He should call her inside—it's already dark out and far past the time she should be in bed, what is Tom doing, letting her stay up this late?

The smile disappears at the thought of _him._

His stomach feels tied in knots. At the thought of Tom, all his thoughts seem to be thrown into turmoil. He doesn't know how to feel about him. Harry turns around, a familiar presence alerting him to the other man entering the room.

He meets Tom's impassive gaze with a cool look of his own, watching him from behind the glass balcony doors. The dark lord narrows his eyes, in what could either be considered a greeting or dismissal, before he turns away. Harry sighs, and opens the doors. They don't speak as he unfastens his cloak, releasing the golden clasp from around his neck. Death's cloak pools in his hands like shimmering water. He folds it carefully and throws it over the back of a nearby armchair. The rest of his garments come off in a similar fashion, though they are tossed into the laundry basket for the house elves to take care of as he walks into the bathroom. Even dressed in pajamas, his identity as Death is unavoidable. He glances briefly at himself in the bathroom mirror; haunting, inhuman green eyes stare back.

He shakes his head, exiting the bathroom. Tom doesn't look as if he intends to go to bed any time soon; the glass doors to their personal library are wide open, a light on somewhere in the depths inside.

Harry deliberates for a moment, wondering if he should just leave the man be and go to bed.

In the end his feet carry him into the library, drifting past towering shelves in search of the dark lord. It's not hard to find him; not only because their library isn't that big, but also because it's never hard to find him, ever. His soul is always calling to its other half. They are always connected, no matter what dimension he's wandered into, what plane of reality he's found himself in.

He leans against one of the shelves for a moment, simply watching the other man as he scrutinizes the contents of a book, bent over the desk in a way that signifies he's intensely engrossed in his current train of thought. Harry waits until he's straightened up, before speaking.

"Are you coming to bed any time soon?" He asks, folding his arms.

"In a minute," Tom replies, distracted.

Harry waits for another moment, before he pushes off the shelf, heading back for the bedroom. He takes one look at the empty bed, and promptly decides that's the last place he wants to be. Instead he pivots towards the door, exiting into the hallway. He stops by Sai's room, head tilted slightly to listen for any noises on the other side. The lights are off, and when Harry peeks in, the boy looks fast asleep. He can still hear music from Aster's room, despite her muffling charm, and the light shines through the bottom of Ceph's door.

He walks passed them all, heading for the grand entry way, curling staircase lined in a magnificent gold radiating off the opulent chandelier. He can admit it is all beautiful, if not overwhelmingly empty. From there he descends down the stairs, heading for the door to the balcony. This too is palatial and glowing in warm light; glass baubles float in quartets by the ceiling, bright and illuminating. With a snap of his fingers they dim as he walks past them, rounding the water fountain and down the steps into the yard. It's not hard to make out Cassiopeia's small form, her lumos floating beside her like a beacon in the night.

Harry nears, shaking his head fondly to see she hasn't once looked up from her book.

"It's way past your bedtime, young lady." He interrupts her voracious reading, making her leap up in shock.

She blinks wide eyes at him, before she leaps up with a beaming smile. "Mum!" She darts into the circle of his arms, squeezing him tightly. "Hi!"

"Hey kiddo," He says, smiling down at her softly. "What are you doing up so late?"

She quickly hides the book behind her back, as if Harry could have possibly missed it. "Just reading," she answers evasively.

Harry is not fooled in the least. He notices the tree she picked not only has a swing tied to one of its branches, it also happens to be conveniently just outside the limit of the house's wards. He raises an unimpressed brow. "And is it something you're allowed to be reading?"

She just stares at him with wide eyes. "Yes, of course."

Harry shakes his head fondly. Who taught her to lie like that? He swoops down to pick her up in his arms. She protests loudly, especially when he plucks the book right from her fingers. She was at least smart enough to slip on a different book cover. The sleeve says 'Tales of Beedle the Bard', but the inside is certainly not a handful of fairytales. He scans the first few lines of dense writing on the page he's opened it to, wondering if she can even comprehend this sort of stuff at her age. Well, he wouldn't put it past her to try anyway. It's certainly what Tom Riddle would have done, and Cassi shares quite a few similarities with him.

"No more stealing books from the library," Harry tells her sternly.

She, of course, immediately protests. "Sai does it all the time!"

Does he now? "I don't care," Harry says instead, although he files that information away for later. "It doesn't change the fact you're not allowed into the back of the library."

Cassi pouts. Harry remains unmoved, although privately he can admit it's an adorable sight. But he's had more than enough practice with manipulative doe eyes - all of his children have tried it at some point, to varying degrees of success. Though none of them had ever tried as often as Cassi, and to that end, none of them were ever as successful. She has always been the most manipulative of them all. Harry inwardly rolls his eyes. His children are all manipulative and cunning. Big surprise there.

Cassi sighs dramatically. "I'm very sorry, Mummy." She apologizes in what could possibly be the least apologetic tone in the world, "I won't do it again."

"Uh-huh." Harry nods skeptically. "I'm sure."

She just turns her big eyes towards him again. "I promise!" She insists. "So can you let me down now?"

"And let you run off in search of more mischief?" Harry raises a brow, smiling.

She scowls. "No."

Harry definitely does not let her down. She'll bolt off somewhere before he can even try to catch her. Not to mention, it's won't be long until he won't be able to do this anymore, and he wants to savor the opportunity. She'll be too big soon enough. The thought makes him a little nostalgic. He always loved toting them around. Not as much as Tom, though. Harry smiles slightly; when they were all just young toddlers the dark lord used to disappear to take long walks through the garden, just to hold them without anyone seeing. It was so like Tom to think that was something he has to hide.

He's reluctant to place her down on her bed, but at this point she's kicking her feet out mutinously, and he has no choice but to let her down. He buries his nose in her hair one last time, giving her a quick kiss to the temple before finally letting her down.

She pouts at him from her place on the bed as he rummages through her drawers for a set of night clothes. He finds an acceptable nightgown, turning around to wave his wand at her. Her dirty romper is replaced with the nightgown, and Harry moves to toss it into the hamper. Afterwards he goes about tucking her in. Cassi says nothing, forever defiant even as she settles under her covers.

Harry leans down, smoothing her hair out of her eyes. "It's time for bed now, okay?"

She grumbles.

Harry huffs fondly, before leaning down to place a kiss on her forehead. "No more reading for tonight."

"Fine," she sighs dramatically.

He runs his fingers through her hair again, feeling as if he's finally come home, now that he's here. It's still fine and soft like a baby's, slipping through his fingers. At least all of his children were spared from the curse of the Potter hair, he thinks wryly, smiling slightly at the thought.

He wags his finger in front of her face, as he moves to stand. "And no disappearing acts, young lady."

Cassi gives him an adorable moeu in response. "No disappearing acts for mum, either." She parrots back to him.

Harry drops his hand, surprised. He smiles, but this time it doesn't meet his eyes. "Okay, it's a promise." He agrees, as he drops down to kiss her nose.

He moves to straighten up, but she catches him tiny fingers, grasping his sleeve. When he looks down, her green eyes are very imploring. "One more story?"

Harry huffs. "Didn't I just say that was enough reading for tonight?"

She shakes her head rapidly. "No, Mum reads the story, so I'm not reading it so it doesn't count."

Harry is not impressed with that seven-year old logic, but he gladly settles back down anyhow. "Okay, one story. Nothing from this book, though." He taps the dark tome masquerading as a story book with a nonplussed expression, setting it behind him on her bedside table, far out of her reach.

She at least has the good decency to look somewhat sheepish. "But what about Tales of Beedle the Bard?"

"The real one, right?" Harry confirms, drily.

Cassi nods, looking vaguely chastised. "The Tale of the Three Brothers!" She insists.

Harry blinks down at her. "Really?" He asks, skeptically. He's fairly sure all his children know that one by heart, if only because it's so infamous in their family.

"You have to tell it as yourself," she adds, resolutely.

Harry is momentarily taken aback. Then he shakes his head with a sigh. "Alright then," he acquiesces, before grinning roguishly. "Well, once upon a time I was just wandering around, minding my own business, going about doing my Death thing -

Cassi giggles.

"When I noticed these three brothers trying to cross a very dangerous river. It had just rained, so the current was very strong, and there was no bridge. They seemed like easy pickings to me, so I stood and waited for them to idiotically do my job for me."

Cassi hides her smile under her covers, pulling them up to her nose. "And then?" She urges, exciting.

"Well," Harry gives a dramatic sigh. "It turns out they were all wizards, so they conjured a bridge and crossed safely."

"But that was no good." She interrupts, blinking, anticipation sparkling in her eyes.

"No not at all." Harry agrees. "It made me very irritable. I decided I would approach them and pretend to congratulate them, offering them something as a prize for cheating me. Now, any dark wizard worth their salt would know not to take such a duplicitous offer, but these wizards were not practitioners of dark magic, so they took me up on my offer."

"Now, one of them was very ambitious and combative; he asked me for an unbeatable wand. I took a twig off of a nearby elder tree and fashioned it into a wand that would never lose. The second brother was an arrogant and self-centered man, and he asked me for the power to defy death, and recall those from the grave. I took a pebble from the river and turned it into a Resurrection Stone."

Cassi's eyes were wide and captivated as she peeked out from her bed covers. "And the last brother?" She asked, eagerly.

"Well, the last brother was a shrewd and cautious man. He was humble as well, so when I asked him what he wanted from me he very carefully asked for a way to go forth with his life without me. And so I handed him a piece of my own Invisibility Cloak, and they went off on their merry way."

Harry clears his throat. "Later that evening, the first brother made his way to the -

"Not that!" Cassi interrupts, petulantly. "What did _you_ do?"

"What did I do?" Harry blinks.

"Yes, while you were waiting for the brothers to die," she adds impatiently. "Death couldn't have just been waiting around."

Harry laughs. "You're trying to get a second story out of this, aren't you?"

"No," she denies, stubbornly.

Harry only rolls his eyes. "What was I doing? Well, I was biding my time, telling bedtime stories to little girls who refuse to go to bed."

"That's not true," Cassi whines.

He laughs. "Alright then - what was I doing? Who knows - maybe I was dealing with the Jotunheim rebellion, or maybe I was here on Earth for the vampire wars, or traveling to meet the great Monkey King. The first brother died very quickly, as you know, so I didn't have to wait long for him. And the second was quick to follow."

"But the third was smart," Cassi remarks.

Harry nods sagely. "Very smart," he agrees. "He eluded me for a very long time, but that was okay."

Cassi blinks. "It was?" She asks, skeptically. "But he cheated you!"

"Sure he did, but in the end, I won anyway." Harry raises a brow. "No one cheats death for very long."

"Except daddy." She points out, giggling.

Harry rolls his eyes. "He's a very special exception," he agrees, wryly, before continuing on; "But you know, I actually tend to think of the third brother quite fondly. You wouldn't be here without him - and neither would I."

"...Really?" She asks, not looking convinced.

"Sure - he's your ancestor, you know. That invisibility cloak is the exact same one I have now."

Cassiopeia looks captivated. "No way!"

Harry laughs. "Well anyway, there's your bedtime story. None of them lived happily after, but we wouldn't be here without them, so I think it's a good ending anyhow."

Cassi protests this, insisting for more stories, but Harry puts his foot down this time. Truth be told, thinking about the three brothers and the meaning behind them has made Harry feel a bit maudlin, and he doesn't think he's capable of weaving anymore stories tonight. That and she really does need to be getting to bed. So Harry spells the lights off, tucks her in, and makes sure to kiss her goodnight and run his fingers through her hair until she unwillingly falls asleep.

His expression drops into a pensive frown the moment he's left her room and enters the hall, a far off look in his eyes as he stands against the door.

Finally he lets out a long breath, before pushing off the doorframe to return to his own room.

" _Please_ tell me you didn't give her that book." He says when he gets there, and Tom is readying for bed.

"What book?" He asks, turning off the faucet.

Harry holds it aloft. "This grimoire on demonology."

This gives Tom pause. His eyes meet Harry's in the mirror. Then he shrugs. "It's harmless." Otherwise, they wouldn't have kept it in the main library, but their own personal one, where it was far less likely to be stolen. That much was obvious.

All the same, Harry frowns. "She's too young to be getting involved in that sort of thing." He disagrees. "She's not even in Hogwarts yet."

"All the better for the head start, then." Tom returns, unworried.

Harry scowls, before sighing, not agreeing in the least but also not up for another argument at the moment. He wanders back into the bedroom, crawling into bed. He never realizes how exhausted he is until he's lying down. The faucet turns on again. Harry's eyes slip shut. He waits until it turns off to call, "And she shouldn't be staying out that late, either."

He's sure _that_ will start an argument; it always does. Voldemort is never insecure, plagued with self-doubt, or filled with uncertainty - unless it's about parenting. In which case he reacts with defensive anger without fail.

"That's not an accusation," he adds, before the other man takes it as one. Which he will. Harry understands this is all some convoluted response to the man's own father, or lack thereof. Some subconscious terror that he'll end up just like him somehow; that he'll end up as awful a father as his own. But knowing this doesn't make it any easier to deal with.

Harry's eyes slide open a little. Tom's expression is difficult to read when he exits the bathroom. "I'm just pointing out we should probably keep a better eye on her," he says, as neutrally as possible. "She's becoming quite the escape artist - and she's made disappearing on the house elves into a minor art form."

Tom remains silent, leaning against the side of the bed. "It's not as if she's going very far," he refutes. "I have no issue with it, as long as she's not injuring herself."

Harry grits his teeth as he makes a valiant effort not to just snap at him. There are a lot of dangerous things that she can accidentally get herself into, whether she's wandered far or not. The wards are not infallible, and trusting a seven year-old to their own devices like this is a little naive.

But, snapping at him will get them nowhere. More to the point, it also won't solve the problem.

"Maybe we should look into a full time nanny." Harry suggests, genuinely giving the idea some thought. Or boarding school, even. Even with regular primary school, there are far too many unwatched hours in a day.

"That would be pointless." Tom dismisses the thought without missing a beat. "She doesn't need the supervision."

Harry rubs his temples. He'd just been thinking earlier how strikingly similar Cassiopeia Riddle and Tom Riddle are turning out to be. And at that age, Tom Riddle probably valued his solitude and his independence. And Tom would know that, wouldn't he? He probably relates to her quite easily, as opposed to Harry, who spent his own childhood neglected and without any supervision, constantly wishing for a guiding hand to help him when he was lost and didn't know how to proceed.

"Okay, I agree she's very independent and doesn't need to constantly be watched." Harry says, patiently, "But I still don't think she should be home alone, now that the house elves can't keep up with her. She's still a child, Tom, even if she doesn't often act like it." He never really liked using house elves as babysitters or nannies, but he could at least feel secure in the knowledge that Dobby would rather die than let anything happen to them.

Honestly his levels of devotion were unsettling sometimes.

Tom is unmoved. "She runs off to roam the forest constantly, and she has taken care of herself thus far. Rest assured there is an elf watching her out of sight at all times, but nonetheless she appears to value the solitude and the freedom."

"She does this often?" Harry's eyes widen, as he sits up. The magical forest behind their house was practically as bad as the forbidden forest; Harry was fairly sure there was a growing nest of Acrumantula in there. And that was to say nothing of the other dangerous creatures that called that forest home.

Tom crosses his arms. "Yes, almost every day. But then, I suppose you wouldn't know, would you?" He replies, stonily.

It hurts more than Harry expected - and all the more because it's _true_. Corrosive guilt burns like acid in his stomach. Then a hollow anger rises in his throat. How _dare_ he throw that in Harry's face.

Harry's gaze is just as cold. "Don't act like you would know either." He points out, darkly. "You're away from home almost as much as I am."

Tom snorts. "There's not even a comparison. At least I'm still somewhere in this _dimension_. Merlin knows wherever the hell you are, or when you'll be back, for that matter."

The barb hits home. "Do you think I want to be that far away?" He hisses, lowly. "That I want to leave at the drop of a hat, never knowing when I'll be able to return?"

Tom's eyes flash. "You have no one to blame for this but yourself."

This too, is an old argument. So old Harry has analyzed it back and forth. They say understanding the situation is already half the solution, but that saying is wrong. Figuring out the problem is not half the battle. It's barely even the beginning.

Tom might rule the Wizarding World, and people might think him god-like and infallible, but between the two of them they both know that's not the case. Only one of them is a god in this room, and despite how much he covets that power, it's not the Supreme Chancellor of Wizengamut. But Harry didn't wish for this fate anymore than he wished to be cursed with this scar on his forehead. And Tom knows it. Harry doesn't understand why Tom obsesses so much over immortality, but Harry wished he could discard it like a used cloak. His continued lack of dying was appalling, honestly. There were far too many instances where he should have just died and been done with it; it was truly unfortunate that that was never the case.

"You know damn well that's not true." Harry returns, icily.

"You _know_ I didn't choose this," Harry continues. "You know there's nothing I can do about it, and you know that if I had a choice in the matter I would never want to leave like this all the time, that I'd rather stay with all of you!"

He exhales sharply after that, belatedly wondering how they always manage to end up shouting at each other like this. He scrubs a weary hand through his hair, ruffling it into something more untamable than usual.

"Don't act so innocent." Tom sneers. "I don't know who you're trying to fool; we both know it's more than just your peculiar career path keeping you away."

Harry stiffens, before scowling darkly. That too hits home dead center. He wishes he could deny it, but it's somewhat true. He _has_ been avoiding coming home. He makes it a point to see his kids as much as possible, spending every minute of his blessed free time with them. So perhaps he's not avoiding home - he's just avoiding _him_.

"It's not a fucking _career path_ and you know it," Harry retorts, intentionally ignoring what he knows Tom is trying to say. "And I'm not sure if you've noticed, but I've been sort of busy keeping reality from falling apart." He adds, sarcastically.

"Spare me your dramatics," Tom says snidely. "I'm in no humor to entertain them today."

"I could only wish that was an exaggeration," Harry sighs under his breath. He knows Tom meant it as an insult, but it only serves to remind him of the very real responsibilities that rest solely with him - namely, keeping reality from falling apart.

Harry honestly doesn't know what more Tom can want from him. What else there is thatHarry can do to make the man happy again. He has literally ripped worlds apart for this man, helped him become all but king of the world, and yes he may have fought Tom on just about every big policy he wanted to enforce, but even Tom can't be unsatisfied with the results. Together, they have made all his goals come to fruition. Harry gave this man everything he has, and he did it willingly. He would still give Tom whatever he wants. And by Merlin would he give this power to Tom, if he could.

But he can't. No one else but Harry can be the Master of Death. There are some things in this multiverse you can't change, and unfortunately that's one of them.

Harry sighs wearily. "Look, I don't want to fight," he says, sounding exhausted. Not about this. Not again.

He slumps back down against the pillows. "If you think she's fine how she is, I'll take your word for it. We both know she takes after you, so if you think that's the way to go, then I trust you." He continues, resigned. "If it turns out she's not mature enough, then we'll figure something out. Deal?"

"Agreed." Tom says, shortly, and it's impossible to get a read on him. At this point, Harry should just stop bothering to even try.

He pushes off the side of the bed. Harry thinks he's going to walk around to get in, but instead he moves forward, closer to Harry. Harry blinks at him, not quite feeling threatened, but not foolish enough to be fully relaxed, either. He sits on the bed next to him. Harry sits up a little more against the pillows, frowning slightly.

"I don't want to fight either." Tom admits, quietly.

Harry blinks, not expecting that. He nods wordlessly, a little too overcome with emotion to formulate a response. Fondness swells in his heart, and in this moment, he can remember exactly why he fell in love with this man. Harry leans forward slightly, closing the distance between them.

His eyes slip shut as their lips brush together. It's so soft he could melt into it, warm and chaste. After a moment he pulls away.

"Good," he agrees, after so long has past he almost forgets what they're talking about.

Harry doesn't know how he feels about this man, but he knows he loves him. Wholeheartedly and irrevocably. Tom is the other half of his soul; by definition they're soulmates, as much as Tom might disagree and complain about idealistic romantic fairytales.

He will always love Tom, is the thing. Even if he's not _in_ love with him, he still loves him. He doesn't know what place they're in anymore, where they stand, but Tom will always be the other half of his soul, the father of his children - his _family_.

He wraps his arms around the other man before he can move away, surprising him. Harry presses their lips together again, more insistently this time, coaxing Tom into fighting him for dominance. It's only a matter of moments before Tom has him pinned to the bed, capturing his lips in a bruising kiss, a possessive hand tugging at his hair. Harry wraps his arms around the other man's neck, feeling something far too close to relief ease the tension out of his shoulders.

Tom pulls away to kiss a trail of molten heat down Harry's neck. He arches into it, wanting more even when Tom mouths at the hollow of his neck in what he knows will be a spectacular mark by tomorrow. Usually the thought would annoy Harry, but right now he feels like he _wants_ it. He wants to be marked.

When they break apart, Harry clutches him tighter, refusing to let any space between them. He buries his face against Tom's shoulder; he doesn't know what he's doing right now, but he doesn't want to let him go.

He has to eventually though, if only because the position is rather uncomfortable. Tom seems equally as unwilling to part, his lips lingering in Harry's wild nest of hair for a moment longer before he pulls away.

Harry stares at him with luminous eyes.

"I really have been busy," he says, which is just one big white lie and a bald-faced truth all wrapped up into one giant ball of guilt.

"I know." Tom replies, begrudging. "But would it kill you to send one of your demon lackeys with an update every once in awhile?"

"Demon lackeys - ?" Harry repeats, annoyed. He shakes his head, dropping the subject with a sigh. "But yes, I can. And I'm sorry I didn't send one earlier." Or at least, haven't sent one to _him_. They've all taken a shine to Cassi lately.

Tom simply nods, getting up to walk over to his side of the bed. "Oh, and you'll need to send one of them to be the new gatekeeper for the Himalayan portal." He adds, as he pulls down the covers.

Harry frowns as he gets under them himself. "Why? What's wrong with it?"

"It's been experiencing high volumes of traffic." Tom explains, and Harry is infinitely grateful for this segue; it makes everything feel normal, talking to him like this, about problems they can solve together, not problems that tear them apart. "And if both Cepheus and Asterope can find a way past the guards, it clearly needs more security."

Harry snorts, smiling fondly. Why is he not surprised? "I'll find someone. But I highly doubt that will stop them."

Tom gives a noncommittal grunt in response. Harry's smile disappears slowly, as he turns to his side, facing the other man. Now that they're not arguing, he can see just how tired he looks. Unsurprising, really, considering the vast problems he must attend to every given day, and the man's tendency to work the night away. His breath has already evened out with sleep.

_Harry lets out a long breath, nosing into his pillow. He may as well get some rest too. Everything wrong with the world will still be there when he wakes up._

/


	4. 火野 レイ

Harry’s eyes fluttered open slowly. At first the world was hazy and lost in a listless golden glow. After a few moments the arched windows of Malfoy Manor came into focus, the curtains drifting in a light draft from the window he left open last night. In complete contrast to the other memories— the ones Voldemort had sent him, from Sai— Harry didn’t wake up with a startled jolt, near flying off the bed. Instead it felt as if he was surfacing from a deep lagoon, nothing but the faint tinge of sadness and regret floating up with him.

 

His thoughts and emotions were a mess, but in the end they settled on something that feels far too close to resigned defeat.

 

He scrubbed a hand over his face, feeling oddly tired despite a full night’s rest.

 

 _Well, that was certainly enlightening_ , he thought, with empty humor.

 

Then he sat up, and he felt _awful._

 

He’s not even sure if it’s the onslaught of emotions or his body rebelling against him, but it’s enough for him to double over and groan in pain.

 

He felt hollow and empty, and if he was the type of person who cried he probably would. More than anything it just made him feel tired and exhausted with the world.

 

“We probably would have been better off not getting married at all.” He groused. It would certainly solve all their problems.

 

But then, Saiph would never exist. None of them would exist. That little girl he’d felt so much love and affection for would be nothing but a memory of a future that would never happen. He’d never get to feel for himself if her hair is really that soft, hear if that was really what her voice sounded like, see if her eyes were really that green. If he and Voldemort never married, that would all be gone.

 

But their future together was marred with an inevitable end. Suddenly he understood so well how complicated Saiph’s situation was. How complicated their relationship was. He loved that man, for some unfathomable reason, but it felt as if they’d irreparably drifted apart. Their family was growing up and their lives were drifting apart. They were two people who had to carry the responsibilities of two entirely different worlds on their shoulders.

 

He turned to the boy snuggled under the blankets beside him. It’s still early yet, and after their late night the boy is still sound asleep. Harry smiled at the sight, his hand instinctively reaching out to brush that soft little tuft of hair off his face.

 

A part of him wanted to go and see Voldemort right _now._ He wanted to see if that man in his dreams could truly come from the vicious dark lord he knows. This gave Harry pause. Yes he was a cruel and merciless dark lord— but he hasn’t exactly been cruel and merciless recently, has he? Angry, sure— perpetually irritated, most definitely. But he’s never been _cruel_. He’s actually been quite… accommodating.

 

Harry shook his head. Thinking about Voldemort just made him even more confused. And right now there’s a much larger part of him that is less worried about Voldemort and more worried about _himself_.

 

Saiph didn’t have much to tell them about the Master of Death.

 

But at this point, Harry’s pretty sure he’s got it figured it out.

 

It’s still early enough that Voldemort was probably attending to his dark lord business (which Harry would prefer to never be involved in, or know about, at all) so he decided he would take a little detour before seeing the man. There was something he simply couldn’t postpone any longer.

 

Harry pursed his lips, before pivoting smartly on one foot and searching for a way up to the roof.

 

He had a theory to test.

 

//

 

Tom found the boy on the roof.

 

“Potter,” He said, annoyed, and was pleased to see the boy jump straight up at the sound of his voice.

 

Harry stared at him with wide, green eyes. “...Tom.” He said, stupidly, looking like he’d seen a ghost or something— as if he hadn’t expected to see him, even though they were living in the same house.

 

“What are you doing up here?” He demanded imperiously, picking his way across the shingling. “I don’t appreciate being kept waiting - or having to waste my time searching for an impertinent brat. Do not test my patience again, Potter. I assure you, the outcome won’t be so pleasant next time.”

 

“You were waiting for me?” Harry repeated, perplexed.

 

Voldemort cast him a very nonplussed look. “We are going through the memories again today, are we not?”

 

Harry just blinked at him.

 

“I assumed you would just start without me.” The boy said, at length, looking surprised to find that wasn’t the case. “I figured it wouldn’t matter to you whether I was there or not.”

 

“It’s possible there _may_ be some small detail I might miss,” it looked like it physically pained the ma to say this. “In which case having another set of eyes will be helpful.”

 

Harry was still staring at him as if he’d never seen him before. Quite frankly, it was starting to get irritating.

 

In the interim a gust of wind sieged the manor, picking at the ends of his cloak and the boy’s unruly hair, dark curls flying upward to reveal his infamous scar. For the most part the boy’s artless mess of hair managed to cover it, so Voldemort was actually a bit surprised to see it now. He would certainly never forget the moment that made it, but he had almost forgotten what it actually looked like. He’d never really taken the opportunity to study it in detail; upon further inspection it truly did look like a lightning bolt. He wondered why the killing curse had made such an auspicious looking scar.

 

“What are you doing up here, anyway?” He mentally shook himself out of his thoughts, crossing his arms. “Even the house elves didn’t know where you had gone.”

 

Harry looked forlorn for a moment, before he turned his gaze away from the dark lord, into the overcast sky. Voldemort didn’t quite understand the expression, or why it irritated him so. He reasoned he disliked seeing Harry look so lost because Harry’s temperamental moods made things more difficult for him. It was only natural. The boy was easier to deal with when he was in a better mood. That’s all.

 

“I was just… thinking.”

 

“Thinking,” Voldemort repeated, flatly. “And you couldn’t have done that in the house?”

 

A flicker of annoyance passed the boy’s face. “Must you always be so ornery?” Harry scowled. “I don’t understand how someone can be in such a grouchy mood all the time.”

 

“I have no need to be nice to people,” Voldemort pointed out. “And quite frankly, it isn’t worth the effort otherwise.”

 

For some reason this made the boy’s scowl melt away, revealing something of a smile. “You _would_ say that,” Harry rolled his eyes, with good humor. “Being nice to people isn’t always just about getting what you want.”

 

“I see no other reason to do so.” Voldemort disagreed, flatly.

 

“That’s not even really being nice! That’s just manipulating people.” Harry laughed, looking in far better spirits than he had just a minute ago. “If you tried it, I bet it wouldn’t be so bad. It couldn’t hurt, right?”

 

“This is an asinine debate.” Voldemort declared, instead of answering. “And we are wasting time.”

 

Harry’s expression fell again. By Merlin, what was with this boy? Were all adolescents so unreasonably moody, or was Harry a special case? He didn’t spend enough time around adolescents to know. One moment Harry was laughing and smiling at him, and in the next he’s reverted to his sullen and maudlin mood from earlier.

 

He turned back to the ledge, stepping closer to it.

 

Voldemort watched him with alarm. “Potter,” he said, warningly, when the boy took another step.

 

“I’m not done thinking yet,” Harry replied imperiously, as obstinate as usual.

 

“Then do it inside,” Voldemort snapped, with what he refused to call panic. “And for Merlin’s sake stop walking so close to the ledge— you’re going to fall.”

 

Harry turned to him, profile lit in the dim lighting, and for a second he did not look like Harry Potter at all.

 

“Maybe that’s what I’m thinking about.” He said, staring Voldemort in the eye as he toppled right over the ledge.

 

“ _Potter_!”

 

He rushed over with his wand ready to stop the boy’s fall, but it was probably too late. He peered over the ledge in horror - Malfoy Manor was not particularly tall, but it certainly wasn’t short. Falling head first like that was suicide. Absolute suicide.

 

 _That’s_ what the boy was thinking about? His own death? He looked down, stunned. The boy lay on the grass some meters down, unmoving. He could see the blood spread out from beneath him even from all the way up here, seeping into the ground like soiled wings.

 

As he stared, he couldn’t help but wonder what possessed the boy to do this. Upon further inspection, he realized the better question to ask was; why _wouldn’t_ he? A time-traveling child reveals that he will spend the rest of his life with the murderer of his parents. Honestly that would probably drive a lot of people to suicide.

 

So it was his fault, then. He’d always hoped the Potter brat would die by his hand— but not like this. Not now. Not when he doesn’t want him dead anymore.

 

As if in answer to his silent plea, the boy below him makes a sound somewhere between pain and annoyance, curling in on himself slightly.

 

Voldemort blinked.

 

The boy was… alive?

 

Without a second thought he jumped after him, using magic to levitate gently to the ground. He landed a meter or two away, briskly walking over to the boy’s fallen form.

 

Harry had rolled himself over and was now blinking up at the sky from a pool of his own blood, completely unharmed.

 

His eyes turned to Voldemort when the man stood above him.

 

“You broke your neck.” He pointed out, matter-of-factly, crimson gaze surprisingly full of emotion when Harry looked up at him. He couldn’t quite place what emotion, though.

 

“I thought I felt that.” Harry agreed, nodding.

 

“You were _dead_ , Potter.” Voldemort hissed, grabbing him by the collar and hauling him upright.

 

“Is this how you normally treat the mortally wounded?” Harry asked, annoyed, as Voldemort forcefully pulled him to stand.

 

“If you were actually mortally wounded, you would be _dead_ by now.” Voldemort reiterated, incensed. “Potter, have you lost your mind? You could have died— you _did_ die!”

 

This gave him pause. He thought over his own words. “You died.” He repeated, eyes widening in shock.

 

“Yes you established that like five times already.” Harry agreed, dryly.

 

Voldemort let go of him, taking a step back.

 

He didn’t know what to say.

 

Fortunately the boy elaborated without prompting, as he looked down at himself, brushing the dirt off his clothes. “You know, I get injured a lot. People have told me more than once before that I was fatally wounded but somehow made a miraculous recovery,” he commented idly, as he picked out a blade of grass from his mess of hair— made messier by his spectacular return from the dead. “And I was starting to wonder; was I really just injured? Or had I actually just died without realizing it?”

 

“I think most people would recognize their own death.” Voldemort pointed out, faintly, still shaken from the boy’s brush with death.

 

“I didn’t feel anything,” Harry revealed, cracking his neck. “Well, except for this.” He gestured to his left arm, and Voldemort realized then that it was hanging from his shoulder at an odd angle. “Pretty sure that’s broken.”

 

“It is most assuredly broken.” Voldemort snapped, walking towards him to snatch the boy’s arm in his hand. Harry hissed in pain at the rough treatment, but Voldemort ignored it. Good. In the future maybe it would teach the boy not to do stupid things, like jumping off the side of the house.

 

“In hindsight, this ability of yours should have been quite obvious,” he continued, as he pulled out his wand and began to mend the boy’s broken arm. “How else would someone so astronomically _stupid_ manage to survive this long otherwise? Your continued existence has always boggled me, Potter; now it makes so much sense.”

 

Harry scowled at him angrily. “I’m not stupid. How was I supposed to test my theory otherwise?”

 

Voldemort grew angrier at his insolent arrogance, his utter refusal to admit wrong or feel fear. “Do you think everyone tests their theories by jumping face first off buildings? Obviously not, Potter. A trip to the library would have sufficed.”

 

“Do you really think the library would have any books on being the Master of Death?” Harry protested hotly.

 

“My point is that there are numerous other ways to test your theory that don’t involve reckless and irresponsible behavior.” Voldemort retorted furiously.

 

“He’s not wrong.”

 

The two were startled by the new voice, but only Harry practically leapt away. He jerked his now fully healed arm out of Voldemort’s limp grip, taking a hasty step back. He doesn’t know why he’s blushing right now… it’s not as if they were doing anything even remotely inappropriate. And it’s Saiph, anyway, he’s probably seen that all before, right?

 

Harry rubbed the back of his head self consciously, looking down and willing his cheeks to stop flushing. They weren’t— they weren’t doing anything. But having Voldemort so close to him was reminding him of his dream, the way the man’s lips had felt against his own, the softness of his touch. The way his mouth felt against the intimate expanse of skin just below his ear. Harry shook his head furiously. Oh hell. Now was not the time to be thinking about that.

 

“You were awake?” He asked instead, feeling stupid immediately after. Of course the boy was awake. He was standing right in front of him.

 

“You could have just asked me,” Saiph said, pouting.

 

It was enough to distract Harry from his thoughts. He turned to the boy standing by the sliding glass doors leading into the Malfoy’s extravagant indoor patio. His hands were fisting the bottom of his shirt, as he looked at them with a deep frown.

 

“You knew?” He blinked, surprised. “That I could— I mean, that I can’t die?”

 

The boy nodded vigorously. “Yes— we all know.” His face scrunched up, and he looked away. “You… didn’t have to jump like that.” He finished, voice low and uneven.

 

Harry blinked again, still a bit taken aback. He didn’t understand, at first. Not until Saiph continued, quietly; “I know it’s stupid… I mean, I know you can’t die and all… that a fall like that wouldn’t do anything. But I still— seeing you jump like that was…”

 

He trailed off, swallowing thickly.

 

Harry gasped softly. “Oh, Sai. I’m _so_ sorry.” He rushed over to the boy, hugging him fiercely. “I didn’t mean for you to see that.” He added weakly, even though he knew that was no excuse.

 

Voldemort should be feeling smug that the stupid brat was finally feeling some semblance of guilt. But instead, he just felt mildly uncomfortable. He always did, whenever he saw Saiph and Harry together. Their open affection for each other unnerved him for some reason.

 

Saiph hugged him back after a beat, fingers clenching into the material of Harry’s shirt clinging to him. “Please don’t do that again,” he pleaded, quietly.

 

Harry nodded vigorously. “I won’t, I promise.” He assured. “I’m sorry I scared you.” He added, releasing a long, weary breath. Voldemort was right. That was pretty stupid of him.

 

Harry brought his now healed arm up to run his fingers through Saiph’s silky hair. Saiph only burrowed closer to him in response. Voldemort reasoned his uncomfortableness was due to his and Saiph’s similarities. The boy couldn’t look more like him if he tried, after all. He looked just as Voldemort did at that age. A young Tom Riddle with the face of an angel, manipulative, cunning, sly— sullen, quiet, and terribly alone. It was a time in his life he despised. Of course seeing himself at that age would irritate him, even more so when he remembered Tom Riddle never had anyone to cling to like that; there was no Harry to hug or run to when he was scared.

 

He cleared his throat loudly, causing them to finally break apart.

 

“If we’re done with the dramatics for today, there is a pensieve full of memories to pour over.”

 

Harry nodded, looking resigned. All the color had drained out of Saiph’s features. Voldemort was surprised when Harry’s face suddenly turned equally as white, as if struck with a horrible realization.

 

He frowned. “Do you have an objection to that?”

 

Harry shook his head furiously. “N— no.” He replied. Color was coming back to his face— too much color, actually. His cheeks were quite red.

 

Meanwhile, Saiph still looked concerned.

 

Harry trailed reluctantly after the imposing form of the dark lord, still red in the face. It was difficult to look the man in the eye and _not_ be reminded of the somber and almost gentle man from his dream. He really wished he could stop thinking about that. He wished he could forget it as he does almost every other dream he’s had.

 

Harry paused suddenly.

 

That reminds him— why did he have that dream?

 

It wasn’t a dream, obviously. It was some sort of vision of the future. Except, he doesn’t think it was sent by Saiph, or Voldemort. Saiph wasn’t in the dream at all, so there was no way for him to have any recollection of those events. And obviously Voldemort wouldn’t know about it either. Not to mention, the vision seemed to be from his point of view. But how could that be?

 

Was all this memory-hopping giving him some weird look into the future?

 

No, Harry shook his head vehemently. More than likely his imagination had gotten the better of him and he had made it all up. But then… his immortality theory proved true, and it was far too specific for even his imagination.

 

He threw a hesitant look to the young boy clutching his hand, plodding along rather sullenly beside him. He supposed he could always ask...

 

“Hey, Sai…” He began, hesitantly, throwing a wary look Voldemort’s direction. The man’s large strides had him quite a ways ahead of the two.

 

“Hmm?” Saiph looked up, curiously.

 

“Your little sister,” Harry cleared his throat awkwardly. “Does she, um, steal books from the library often?”

 

Saiph snorted. “Very often.”

 

“And have you as well?”

 

Saiph looked a bit sheepish. “Well…”

 

But Harry wasn’t about to reprimand him for breaking rules Harry hasn’t even made yet. “And in the library— not our personal one, just the regular one— is there a grimoire on demonology? The _Ars Goetia_ , I think it’s called?”

 

Saiph stopped in his tracks, looking up at him with a distinctly confused expression. “Well… yes. There is. Why do you ask?”

 

Harry bit his lip. “Just wondering.” He replied, far too quickly to fool anyone.

 

Saiph frowned up at him, far from convinced. “Harry,” he said, looking concerned.

 

Harry sighed, dropping Saiph’s hand to run it through his own hair, expression wary and confused. “I think… I think I had a dream about it.”

 

Voldemort, having noticed his family has once again forgotten what they’re supposed to be doing right now, turned around with an irritable expression. “For Merlin’s sake, Potter,” he started, crossly. “What is it now—

 

Harry’s gaze flickered towards him, green eyes looking panicked. “I think I had a dream. About the future. That’s not supposed to happen, is it?”

 

//

 

The last thing Harry wanted to do was confront his vision of the future with Voldemort of all people, but trying to keep it from him was an idea doomed to fail. First of all, it might hinder their investigation into Saiph’s time traveling; second of all, Harry was a horrible liar, and the dark lord would figure it out eventually. All the same it was going to be yet another painful conversation he would share with the man, and one that would be made infinitely worse by Saiph’s presence, so he gently asked the boy to give them some time alone.

 

Saiph did not look appeased in the least— if anything, he looked as if he expected Harry and Voldemort to start fighting like cats and dogs the moment he wasn’t there to chaperone them. And quite frankly, considering what Harry has glimpsed from the future, he has good reason to. All the same Harry would prefer to have him out of the room, if only to spare the boy the true, hideous reality of his circumstances; and just how well and truly his parents relationship had deteriorated.

 

Voldemort looked surprised when Harry quietly asked Saiph to head to the library. He didn’t give any excuses, other than that he wanted to talk to Voldemort alone. If Potter was asking the boy to leave, that could only mean this conversation would be… less than pleasant.

 

At any rate, Voldemort was not the kind of person to avoid unpleasant things, so he merely moved them to a mostly unused tea room, and called an elf for tea. He doubted they would drink it, but the pretense seemed applicable anyhow.

 

Harry gave a weary sigh once he finally managed to convince Saiph to head to the library, shutting the door with finality.

 

For good measure, he put up a muffling charm as well, only piquing Voldemort’s interest further.

 

“Well, Potter?” He drawls. “You wished to speak to me? Alone?”

 

“I… didn’t want him to have to hear this.” Harry revealed, quietly. He looked rather defeated as he trudged over to the seat across Voldemort, not meeting his eyes as he poured himself a cup of tea from the set laid on the table between them.

 

The dark lord frowned. “Hear what?”

 

Harry took a breath, staring into the murky depths of his cup. “As I said, I’ve been having… visions.”

 

“Of the future,” Voldemort nodded.

 

“Yes.” Harry agreed at length, still not looking at him. “And I might not know how or why they’re happening, but, well, the contents are rather telling in and of themselves.”

 

This also piqued Voldemort’s interest, as he leans back in his chair and propped his chin in his hand. “Is that so? And what, exactly, were the contents of your ‘vision’?”

 

The way he says it makes his disbelief on the subject evident. Harry can’t even find it in him to be annoyed by that; it seemed rather outlandish. And Voldemort was the kind of person who didn’t hold blind faith in anything; if there was no concrete evidence to support a theory or hypothesis, then he would not believe it. Harry felt an unwilling pang at that— a lot like Cepheus, huh? That was no surprise. Despite the boy’s more relaxed nature, Voldemort was his father. He was bound to inherit some traits from the man.

 

Harry shook the maudlin thoughts away, taking a deep breath. “It was a memory— _my_ memory.” Harry began, taking a deep, shuddering breath. “I had arrived from… somewhere. Somewhere not in this dimension. Um. Well, you were there. But we didn’t talk at first? I was really concerned over Cassi— Saiph’s little sister— because she was reading far past her bedtime, and she was outside and it was growing dark out. So I went to go fetch her… Wait, no, I found you first, I think—

 

Voldemort’s expression grew annoyed. “Is there supposed to be a moral somewhere in this mess, Potter?” He said, unimpressed.

 

“I’m getting to it.” Harry glowered.

 

The dark lord merely raised an amused brow. “Truly? It sounds like a typical, overreactive subconscious to me.”

 

Harry glowered further. “You haven’t even heard—

 

“Are you sure it’s not just your imagination getting the better of you?” The dark lord cut in.

 

If there was one thing Harry disliked more than being called a liar, it was being patronized and not taken seriously. Harry couldn’t believe he was actually going to suggest this, but… “Maybe— maybe it would be easier to just show you?” He blurted out, bright red in the face.

 

Voldemort surveyed his embarrassment with a look of confusion. He looked as if he was debating if it was really worth the effort, disbelief still evident in his gaze. After a moment, he nodded. “Very well. Call forth the memory to the forefront of your mind.”

 

If possible, Harry grew even redder. He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to recall everything he could. When he opened them, Voldemort was gazing deeply into his eyes, far too close for Harry’s liking. He squeaked, and instinctively tried to jerk away, but the man had a firm hand on the back of his head keeping him in place. Harry could only meet his gaze with a horrified expression, heart flipping over in his chest as he held his breath.

 

It was… not nearly as painful as it had been in the Ministry.

 

Saiph was right, apparently. It only hurt when he wanted it to.

 

At any rate, the act of mind reading itself may not have hurt— but the contents of the memory were more than enough to put Harry in serious pain. Pure, mortifying, embarrassing pain.

 

Harry felt a small, but distinct thread of satisfaction when the dark lord emerged from the memory, looking less than composed.

 

The man cleared his throat, looking away. Harry watched his reaction with unabashed fascination— the man wasn’t _embarrassed_ , was he?

 

Well, Harry couldn’t really blame him— he was beyond mortified himself. And there was a lot to be embarrassed about, although personally Harry kept getting stuck on that kiss. He’d never had a kiss like _that._ To be fair, Cho Chang was really all he had to compare it to, and that was a disaster in and of itself. And Voldemort, well… he was clearly a very talented kisser. Thank Merlin they hadn’t gone any further than that— although let it not be said that either of them had been particularly unwilling in the memory. Rather, they had both just been too tired.

 

“There… may be some merit to your idea.” The dark lord hedged, awkwardly. Harry would have been amused by his reaction, if he wasn’t so caught up in his own. “It does seem like a memory. But if that is true, that opens up a whole new well of questions… namely, how did you come to see it?”

 

Harry shrugged. “Dunno.” He was quick to grab the subject and run with it. “But anyway, that’s also why I jumped off the roof. I wanted to see if it was true.”

 

He knew the topic was a mistake with one glance at the other man. The look Voldemort gave him was full of incredulous disbelief and no small amount of disturbed anger. It seemed he had avoided one landmine only to land on another. “You mean to tell me you _jumped off the roof_ to prove a theory that came from a dream you weren’t even sure was real?”

 

Well when he put it like that…

 

“How can you possibly be this stupid,” the dark lord continued, incensed. “You could have _died,_ Potter. You risked your _life,_ and for what? Impatience and an inability to think before you act?”

 

He was completely correct and privately Harry agreed with his point, but all the same he was downright furious to be getting a lecture from Voldemort of all people.

 

Harry scoffed. “I could have died all those times you tried to kill me too, but we’re just conveniently glossing over that, aren’t we?”

 

The dark lord narrowed his eyes. It was a warning sign if Harry ever saw one, but unfortunately he was in no state of mind to heed it for what it was. “That is completely beside the point,” Voldemort retorted, heatedly. “Yes, I was trying to kill you, and we have already established that it won’t happen again. Meanwhile, you seem to be making near death experiences into a sport, because you clearly are incapable of exercising even a small sum of self-preservation.”

 

“I already agreed it was stupid, okay?” Harry returned, defensively, folding his arms. “So you can stop with the lecture.”

 

Voldemort did not look ready to drop the subject, at all. If anything, he just looked angrier. “With such a cavalier attitude like that, clearly I can’t. You are an irresponsible, reckless and impulsive brat who has no sense of accountability—

 

Harry snorted, rolling his eyes. “Oh please Lord Voldemort, tell me about the view you have from up there on your moral high ground.”

 

“And you clearly have no sense of the severity of the issue here, either.” He finished; at this point, he looked beyond irritated, rising to his full, intimidating height.

 

“I understand perfectly.” Harry snapped back, also beyond irritated. “I don’t disagree, it was reckless, impulsive— yes I wasn’t thinking, if I wanted to confirm my immortality there were better ways to do it, whatever. But the last person I want to hear this from is _you_ —

 

“Well it’s clear I'm the only person who has the sense to berate you for such stupid behavior is me—

 

“Oh fuck off!” Harry exploded, standing up himself. “I’m not going to listen to you preach at me like some self-righteous prick when in reality all you’re doing is looking after your own interests! You are the _last_ person who has any right to tell me what to do.” He hissed lowly, after he’s taken a breath. “You— you of all fucking people have no right to be sitting here berating me. You have absolutely no entitlement to me, and no grounds to be telling me what I can and can’t do.”

 

“No grounds?” Voldemort repeated, voice high with disbelief. “Everything about you concerns me, Potter. Have you forgotten that already?”

 

“I haven’t forgotten anything.” Harry retorted sharply. “You’re the one misunderstanding things here. _I am not yours._ What I do is my own concern and has nothing to do with you.”

 

“Enough with the self denial, Potter.” The dark lord drawled, icily. “Have you already forgotten the boy you just asked to leave the room?”

 

“The boy from the future— a future that hasn’t happened yet, mind you.” Harry returned, scathingly, deciding he has had enough of this futile, infuriating conversation. He pivoted smartly on one foot, making for the door.  

 

“A future that’s _never_ going to happen, I can assure you of that!” He shouted over his shoulder, as he wrenched it open.

 

“You know as well as I do how untrue that is.” Voldemort called in response.

 

Harry had half a mind to turn around and curse him. His hand stilled on the door knob as he took a breath. “I don’t believe for a second that the future is set in stone— and I doubt you do either.” He said quietly, voice as cold as stone. “And as far as I’m concerned, right now I’d rather watch you burn at the stake than get married to you.”

 

He doesn’t bother to wait for Voldemort’s response. It would probably just make him even more furious.

 

//

 

In hindsight, Harry wasn’t entirely sure how that argument even started. All he knew was that he left the room impossibly incensed and in the mood to burn this whole damn manor down with Voldemort still inside.

 

Everything about the man irritated him. Everything.

 

 _No wonder we’re getting a divorce_ , he thought, snorting. They couldn’t even be in the same room together without biting each other’s heads off. Both times ended explosively, even though the conversation had started out relatively tame. He casted a quick tempus as he briskly walked down the hall, looking for Saiph. Merlin, they hadn’t even lasted fifteen minutes before shouting at each other.

 

There was no way that future would ever come to pass, he decided, resolutely.

 

He really had to wonder why in the hell they got together in the first place. Even Sai couldn’t tell him, and Harry was honestly at a loss. He couldn’t think of a single redeeming quality about the man. Maybe the prophecy is onto something, he thinks uncharitably, as he storms down the halls. The idea of one of them offing the other was starting to bear more and more merit the longer he had to endure his presence.

 

 _That’s not all there is to him,_ a tiny voice in his head pointed out. He remembered the man in his dreams, who stared at him as if he was something precious and yet unattainable. Who stared at him with such _longing_ , it was almost too much for him to handle.

 

Then he remembered the man he had just left a few minutes ago, who stared at him as if he wanted to wring his neck.

 

 _Sure, okay, just 99 percent of him is a total asshat,_ he thought back. There’s a 1 percent that’s decent enough. Somewhere in there. Maybe.

 

He almost missed Sai in his rage, having to backtrack when he sees the boy curled up into the corner of a large sofa in the library, looking so small and sad Harry finds his irritation slipping away from him at the sight.

 

“Sai?” He called hesitantly, moving into the room. “Are you feeling okay?”

 

He shrugged.

 

“Were you guys having a row?” He asked quietly, picking imaginary lint off the fabric by his feet.

 

Harry immediately felt guilty. Merlin, were they really that obvious? Or was Saiph just so used to them fighting he just automatically assumes that’s all they’re capable of doing? _(And as far as Harry can tell, he’s not wrong.)_

 

“Well…” Harry coughed, looking away. “Slightly, yes.”

 

 _Slightly?_ Harry was minutes away from hexing the man, and he was sure Voldemort felt the same.

 

Saiph seemed to see right through that, giving him a vaguely unimpressed look. Then he just sighed, and returned to staring at his knees.

 

“You guys are always fighting.” He mumbled, not looking at him.

 

Harry wanted to reassure him. Truly, he did. But he has no idea what to say. Harry and Voldemort do not have a relationship currently, and their history is purely one of animosity. They barely manage to stay in the same room together as it is, and that’s only if Saiph is there to mediate between them. Without him, they seem to devolve into yelling and arguing almost immediately.

 

And future Harry and future Voldemort don’t seem to be any better at coexisting with each other. Sure, their fighting is not quite as explosive, but it’s still there. It’s fighting of a different kind; less yelling and more silence, less anger and more resentment.

 

“Yeah,” Harry agreed, defeated. “I guess we really are.”

 

For a while, Saiph doesn’t say anything. Harry flopped onto the couch next to him; the tumultuous events of this morning seem to catch up to him all at once, leaving him exhausted. It’s not even noon yet and Harry has already died and resurrected from the grave, gotten into two fights with Voldemort, and managed to terrify and upset Saiph. He ran a wary hand through his hair; today is really not going well. In fact, today has been just plain bizarre. On that note, how is this even his life? It was only a few days ago that he was lonely and depressed and locked in a room on Privet Drive, and now his life has been completely upturned and he’s in Malfoy Manor getting into arguments with Voldemort, a man who probably would have killed him on sight a week ago. It still was so surreal to him. It would be a while before all of this really sunk in.

 

“You haven’t always been fighting.” Saiph said, voice quiet and threadbare. “You weren’t always like this… I don’t remember you two arguing this way at all during my childhood. I don’t know what changed— it feels like I just woke up one day and you two were like this.”

 

The young boy smiled feebly. “We used to go out every weekend. Sometimes to the mountains, or the beach, or even into the city. You and Dad would always argue over where to go, but never very seriously; you always wanted to go to a city somewhere, while Dad preferred the countryside. But no matter the outcome you two would always make up and enjoy the weekend either way.”

 

Harry watched him soberly; this is the first time he’s called Voldemort _‘dad’_. It’s so offhand and affectionate, and said so carelessly Harry doubted Saiph even noticed the slip. It made the wistfulness and sadness in his voice all the more poignant. He wondered what it must have been like, what fond memories Saiph was reliving in his head. He honestly couldn’t even fathom it. He and Voldemort on a trip somewhere, actually enjoying themselves?

 

“We had dinners together every night then, too. And we would wake up late on the weekends and have breakfast together. Sometimes we would even go to Quidditch games.” Saiph added, despondently. “I don’t know what happened to that either.”

 

Harry felt another stab of guilt at that. He wishes more than anything that he had answers for the boy. That he could solve this somehow. He wanted to yell at his future counterpart to make it work somehow, but then he recalled the very thoughts he had had while walking over here and realizes how hypocritical it was of him to think that. _He_ can’t even make it work right now; why would it be any different for his future self twenty years or so from now?

 

 _You could try._ That stupid voice reasons with him, in the back of his head.

 

He looked over at Saiph.

 

He _had_ to try. He’d never been one to give up, even when the odds are perilous and stacked against him. Why should this be any different?

 

Harry swallowed with difficulty, finding it hard to find his voice over the onslaught of emotions he was currently feeling. He steeled himself; he had to try. This was a conversation that seemed almost inevitable, one he couldn’t avoid for much longer.

 

“What— what do you think changed all that?” He asked, gently. “Was there an event of some kind? Did something happen?”

 

Saiph nibbled at his bottom lip. The little tuft of hair that never seems to want to be tamed floats across his forehead; as always, Harry found himself reaching out to smooth it back down. The boy all but leaned into the touch, and soon enough Harry had an armful of Saiph.

 

“I’m not sure,” the boy mumbled into Harry’s shirt. “I can’t think of anything, really. I guess… it was just a lot of little things. I didn’t even really notice it at first. But by the time I was getting ready to leave for Hogwarts I could tell something was wrong.”

 

His hands curled into the fabric of Harry’s shirt, clinging there as if he thinks Harry might disappear. “Father started coming home later and later. You two used to go off on your own sometimes, you know, like a date night or something—

 

Harry cringed at the very thought. A _date_ with Voldemort? Merlin, that sounded like something out of a nightmare.

 

“— just the two of you, but I can’t remember the last time you did that. It was rare for the two of you to be in the same room together without Cassi or I. Before I even knew it, I could no longer recall a time I had seen you two together.” Saiph rested his head on Harry’s shoulder.  

 

He was quiet for a while, as one of Harry’s hands reached up to run his fingers through the child’s hair in a soothing gesture. Harry almost thought Saiph had fallen asleep, but then he spoke again; “And now— now I don’t see you two together ever, unless you’re arguing. I don’t even think you sleep at home anymore… not that you’re home all that often these days. Cassi said during the school year while we were all away, you would come home to tuck her in and read her a bedtime story, leave, and then return in the morning to get her ready for school.”

 

“I was so scared to come home this Christmas,” he confessed, voice thick with emotion. “I wished so badly that I would come home and everything would be fine again, but I knew… I knew nothing was okay. But I just wanted to pretend for a little bit that it was.”

 

Harry didn’t know what to say. “Oh, Sai…”

 

“I’m not sure what went wrong, but I know you’re both unhappy. It’s so easy to see.” He sniffled, gripping Harry tighter as he started to cry in earnest.

 

Harry’s eyes had started to sting as well.

 

“I don’t want you to be unhappy, but I don’t want you to go.” The boy sobbed. “I just want everything to be okay again.”

 

Harry reached up quickly to rub his eyes before any tears fell. “Saiph, I’m so sorry.”

 

Saiph pushed away then, looking up at him with shining emerald eyes; a mirror to his own. “I’m the one who’s sorry!” He shook his head wildly, sniffling again. “I’m the one who came here out of nowhere, causing all these problems for you and dad when you don’t even know me yet and I can’t even remember what happened to me or why it happened, or even if I did this on purpose and I’m just being a burden on you guys—

 

“That is completely untrue.” Harry denied vehemently. “You are absolutely not a burden, to either of us.”

 

“You don’t even know me yet,” Saiph choked out. “I know you’re not _really_ my Mum and it’s not fair to drag you into this whole mess when it hasn’t even happened for you yet.” He rubbed furiously at his eyes. “You’re not that much older than me, really, just a sixteen year-old and I keep looking to you to solve everything when that isn’t fair to you _at all—_

 

Harry grabbed him before he could finish, wrapping him up in a big hug. “Sai, listen to me— it’s _okay._ I don’t mind. More than that, I _want_ you to come to me when you’re feeling upset like this.”

 

It can’t be good for the boy, to be bottling all this up inside him. It was clear he needed to get this out—it was clear he needed to get _a lot_ of things out—and Harry honestly didn’t mind in the least. If anything, he was glad for it. Nothing Saiph said was untrue— he wasn’t Saiph’s Mum, not the one he remembered, and he was a woefully inexperienced sixteen year-old without much advice to offer, but at the very least he could be there for him. He could be there for him when he was feeling sad, when he needed to cry, when he didn’t want to be alone.

 

“I’m glad you told me all this,” Harry murmured, running his hands up and down the boy’s back, soothing the little tremors going up and down his spine. “I know you want to be strong, but it’s okay to be upset. You don’t have to deal with this alone.”

 

That was rather hypocritical of him, considering he spent his entire summer doing just that. He was just full of hypocrisy today, wasn’t he? All the same he knew it wasn’t healthy to do what he had been doing; trudging through the summer in nothing but misery and loneliness, wallowing in his own pain. Just like it wasn’t healthy for Saiph to keep all this bottled up inside of him, where it would only sink deeper and deeper until it became a sorrow he couldn’t ever remove. Maybe they both needed this; Harry half-wondered if maybe all of this was meant to happen, Saiph crashing into his life like this, upturning everything he’s ever known. Saiph clearly needed him, and honestly, Harry needed him too. If Saiph hadn’t barreled his way into Harry’s life, Harry would have inevitably sunk further into his depression, growing more and more distant from the people who cared about him, closing himself off from everyone. Depression was a dark and slippery slope, with no clear way out. It was very possible Harry would have lost himself in it if Saiph hadn’t been here. As it was, he hasn’t thought of Sirius’ death at all in this past week, aside from when Voldemort brought up the events at the Ministry in passing.

 

He buried his nose in the boy’s soft hair. “Whether it was an accident or intentional, I’m really glad you’re here.” He confessed, quietly.

 

Saiph stilled in his arms. “...Really?”

 

“Yeah.” Harry let out a huff of laughter. “I’m not going to lie to you, you kind of did completely upturn everything in my life— but maybe I needed that. I needed all of this. I needed _you_.”

 

Saiph looked up at him shyly; his cheeks were still ruddy from crying, but there was a small smile on his lips. “You really mean that?”

 

“Yeah, I really do.”

 

His smile grew at his response, before drifting off into a pensive look. “But what about the time travel? And these memories you’re having— and, and father?”

 

Harry shrugged. “I’m not sure. I guess we’ll have to figure it out together, huh?”

 

This brought the smile back, if only a little. “Okay.”

 

//

 

Harry realized belatedly that his conversation with Voldemort over this new vision had been completely derailed before they could come up with any ideas. They tended to do that a lot— get off topic from whatever they had intended to discuss, devolving into arguments instead.

 

Which meant he would probably have to summon up the courage to start yet another conversation with the man. This time, he swore he would make a valiant effort _not_ to be dragged into petty shouting matches. He’s not sure what it is about the man that inspires so much volatile fury in such a short amount of time, but even thinking about him has lit a low-grade level of annoyance within Harry.

 

He left Saiph in the library with a book in hand, promising to come find him again when it was time for lunch. Saiph hadn’t asked where he was going— more than likely the boy already knew— although he had looked a bit apprehensive over Harry’s departure.

 

Harry didn’t want to apologize. He didn’t think he had anything to apologize for— to Voldemort, at least. It’s not necessarily that he agreed with what he did, or that he didn’t understand the logic behind Voldemort’s anger. It was pretty stupid of him to risk his own life like that, even though he’d just had this… this _instinctual_ understanding that the fall wouldn’t kill him. But he could admit that a gut feeling really wasn’t enough reason to jump off the side of the house. So maybe it wasn’t necessarily the reason behind Voldemort’s anger, but really just the fact that the man thought he had any right to be angry at him at all.

 

The more he thought about it, the more he realized how little that argument really had to do with the jumping at all. That was just the catalyst. The real issue was that Voldemort seemed to have this sense of entitlement towards him, and Harry absolutely couldn’t _stand it_.

 

It was the arrogance, he supposed.

 

The man just presumed that everything would go as he planned merely because he willed it so— as if Harry’s own feelings on the matter were of little to no importance at all. Voldemort seemed to have everything plotted out in his head; as far as he was concerned, Harry was already his possession, it was just a matter of time before Harry eventually gave up and conceded to that. Harry snorted. Fat chance of that.

 

Harry had every intention of finding Voldemort and telling him exactly where he could shove that stupid arrogance of his, and beyond that, keeping his head long enough to actually get some real discussion in, when his mind began to get side tracked.

 

He passed a sitting room and suddenly had an intense urge to go into it, and sit on the couch. He was feeling very tired, actually. A little rest wouldn’t hurt, and maybe it would give him time to clear his head enough to formulate a proper course of action for dealing with the dark lord. He had woken up pretty early, after all, especially after sleeping so late. But the sitting soon became lying, and before he knew it he’d slumped down onto the soft cushions, barely able to keep his eyes open. The sleepiness hit him so quickly he didn’t even have the presence of mind to be alarmed by it.

 

Which he should be; he should be very alarmed, and very afraid. Just a few hours ago he’d died and resurrected himself, and there was a high possibility this was a side effect of that. There was just as good of a chance that it was related to the memories he shouldn’t possess. Either way he should really be thinking about calling out for help, but those thoughts slipped away before he could catch them.

 

//

Voldemort wondered what it was about Potter that had changed. Intrinsically the boy was still the same— unusual, annoying, and impertinent. But something about Voldemort’s perception had changed.

 

He just stood there on that roof, staring at him, in a state of unencumbered disbelief. It was as if he was seeing the boy for the first time. A singular moment in time so powerful it was etched into his mind. The boy’s eyes seemed endless; expression nebulous and impossible to read as he pitched over the ledge in what seemed like slow-motion. Slow enough to memorize every agonizing detail, but too fast for Voldemort to reach out and try to stop him.

 

He just… jumped. As if the gesture was meaningless. As if he wasn't risking his life completely and irrevocably without even batting an eyelash, without even a change in expression. Obviously it didn't do anything but he hadn't known that when he was tipping off the side of the roof, fearless in the face of death— the only thing the great Lord Voldemort had ever feared. He had simply walked right off, and stared his own death right in the face.

 

And afterwards he hadn’t even cared to be concerned over his own death, subsequent resurrection, or incurred injuries.

 

He decided, hours after the event, that it was the boy’s fearlessness that he was privately in awe of.

 

Voldemort scowled at himself.

 

Fearlessness was nothing to be proud of. Only stupid people feared nothing; fear was what grounded you. Reckless bravery would get you nowhere.

 

So maybe that’s what Voldemort was so struck by: not his reckless temerity but the _reason_ behind it. Voldemort had feared death since the moment he could grasp the concept of mortality. It had driven so much of his life— perhaps it was even the singular driving force of his life. Death’s grip on him was so powerful it had driven him to achieve feats of magic no wizard had ever done before, splitting his soul into seven pieces, tethering himself to the mortal world, wielding soul magic unheard of to bind the fragments of his soul together. Even the mere thought of death— of _his own_ death— was chilling.

 

Death: the unconquerable force, the inevitable end to all creation, the final struggle. Harry was the Master of Death. He had no fear of death because he had nothing _to_ fear. It was a power Voldemort couldn’t even begin to imagine. It was a _freedom_ he couldn’t imagine.

 

He wasn’t sure if he was considering the boy in awe or in envy.

 

That sort of power was unimaginable. Unthinkable. An impossible concept he could barely wrap his head around. The Master of Death was not so much the master of all things dying as he was the master of transitional space-time. At least, that’s what he could garner from the few bits of information Saiph had to offer. Death was merely a transition of the soul from one plane of reality to the next, which was why the Master of Death could control it. The title was incredibly misleading, since it inferred a mastery over death alone, even though that clearly wasn’t the case. It appeared to be some kind of mastery over the forces of the universe itself, allowing all sorts of incredible abilities to manifest: immortality merely being one of many.

 

In theory, he was impressive.

 

In reality, he Voldemort wanted to wring his neck.

 

He didn’t quite understand how Harry always managed to crack through his normally impenetrable self-control in such an explosive manner, but it appeared the boy didn’t even need to expend any real effort at all in the endeavor. Everything about him irritated the dark lord. His mulish and stubborn personality, his complete lack of a brain or any kind of self-preservation, and every other Gryffindor tendency he displayed. And yet, despite how aggravated it made him he couldn’t help but notice that wasn’t _all_ there was to the boy. There was a part of him that was curiously mystifying. Something beneath the surface that he could only glimpse in brief moments, when his attention was diverted towards something else. Like when he was attending to Saiph, or jumping off buildings.

 

Finding that part of Harry seemed an impossible task— at least in the present. But his short glimpse into the future gave him a better window into what lay beneath all that bravado.

 

The Harry of the future was just as puzzling as the Harry he knew now. They appeared to know each other quite well, in the future, and yet it was clear to see his future self didn’t understand Harry anymore than he did. He might not know Harry, but he did know himself; he could see how much emotion his other self held for the boy, even if he had never outwardly showed it. It disturbed him, really. The way he had looked at the boy. Like he was both his salvation and his downfall all wrapped up in one reality-defying person. Like he was all Voldemort needed— just him and his presence alone.

 

Not that future Harry seemed to realize it; if anything, the boy had thought the opposite. He thought that Voldemort couldn’t care less about him, that he was nothing more than the mother of his children and a valuable ally. How wrong he was.

 

This gave Voldemort pause.

 

And what of now? In the present? How exactly did he feel about Harry, and what did Harry feel for him?

 

For his part, he found the boy exceptionally irritating, but he couldn’t quite place _why._

 

Because this was Harry Potter; the boy prophecized to be his downfall; the boy who managed to destroy him as a mere baby; the boy who was the bane of his existence? Or because he was Harry Potter, the most undeserving person in the world to wield the title of Master of Death? Probably more the latter more than anything. He could see it in his future self’s eyes, in the same way he could probably see it in his own right now; he coveted the boy as much as he envied him. He wanted him as much as he hated him. It was as if they were intrinsically tied together by more than just mere prophecy.

 

Oddly enough, he thought their future together seemed rather inevitable.

 

It was as he was contemplating this thought that his office door opened.

 

He looked up, fully ready to berate Potter yet again for his stupid simple-mindedness, and his refusal to be held accountable for his own actions, when a small head peered out from behind the imposing oak doors.

 

It was Saiph, and he looked like he wanted to be anywhere but here. “...Father?”

 

The door opened slightly, enough for Saiph to slip into the office, staying close to the wall as if he was too scared to get any closer. Voldemort didn’t understand Saiph’s apparent aversion towards him, and more importantly, had no idea how to handle it. He had no idea how to act around children, let alone a child who was apparently his own.

 

“Have you seen Harry?” He asked, tentatively.

 

Voldemort frowned. He’d assumed Potter had run off to hide with Saiph somewhere while he waited for Voldemort to cool down. “I have not.”

 

“He said he would come find me for lunch, but that was hours ago now…” Saiph looked down, fidgeting.

 

The dark lord’s frown deepened. “You haven’t seen him?”

 

Saiph shook his head. “I thought he went to talk to you.”

 

This was concerning.

 

He hadn’t seen the boy since their argument earlier that day. And as Saiph had pointed out, that had been hours ago at this point. Malfoy Manor was large, and full of danger. Voldemort hadn’t told anyone about Potter, mainly because he still had no idea how to explain the situation— and wasn’t sure if he even wanted to. And that was to say nothing of Saiph. Overall, it had seemed like the best course of action. Voldemort had wards in place around this wing anyway, so there was no way for his followers to wander in here. But he wouldn’t put it past Potter to accidentally walk through his wards like cobwebs, and manage to find himself in a great deal of trouble. And he would find quite a bit of trouble, if one of his followers were to find him.

 

“When was the last time you saw him?” The dark lord asked, urgently, as he stood from his desk.

 

Saiph bit his lip. “A couple hours ago. Not too long after he came back from talking with you.”

 

That was more than enough time for that stupid boy to get himself into a mess. Trouble seemed to follow Potter wherever he went like a lost puppy.

 

“Do you have any idea where he might have gone?” He asked the boy, as he strode towards the door.

 

Saiph followed him out into the hallway, a slight frown forming on his features. “No.”

 

He snapped his fingers to call for an elf; a shaky little thing popped into existence with a commendable amount of fear.

 

“You.” Voldemort snapped at it. “There is a third person occupying this wing of the manor. Where is he?”

 

The elf began to shake like a leaf. “Pondy is very sorry, sir, b—but Pondy doesn’t know.”

 

The dark lord scowled deeply at the useless creature. As if sensing its impending doom, the house elf bowed furiously with more apologies, and disappeared from the hallway. Voldemort made a valiant effort not to lose his temper; while it would be rather cathartic, it would do nothing to help him and he had no intentions of ever releasing his rage on his son. Or Harry, if he was being honest. As much as the boy infuriated him, Voldemort no longer had any real interest in seeing him in pain, even by his own hand.

 

A hand tugged at his sleeve, drawing him from his thoughts.

 

Saiph was looking up at him with a conflicted expression as he walked beside him. “Um, father… maybe you could try searching for him?”

 

Is that not what they were doing right now? “What exactly do you think I’m doing right now?” In hindsight, that tone of voice wasn’t going to do him any favors right now.

 

Saiph flinched at the bite in his father’s tone, letting go of his sleeve even as he hastened his pace to keep up with his father’s long strides. “I—I just meant that you could try sensing him.”

 

“Sensing him?” Voldemort repeated, slowing down.

 

The boy nodded. “Yeah. Err—I’m not really sure how it works,” he began sheepishly. “But Mum—I mean Harry—says you two can always sense each other. He says you two have a bond. He also said not to call you guys soul mates because you’ll get mad, but that’s what he calls it.”

 

“A soul bond?” He echoed, perplexed. “How is that possible?” Did he go through some ritual of some kind? But why in Merlin’s name would he want to bind himself so conclusively to Potter of all people?

 

Saiph shrugged, eyes trained to the floor as they walked. “I dunno. But Harry says you’ve always had a bond, ever since he was little.”

 

Voldemort’s eyes widened. No. The boy couldn’t possibly be talking about…

 

“Did he tell you when the bond was made?” He swallowed with difficulty.

 

Saiph just blinked up at him. He frowned thoughtfully. “Sort of. He said it was because of his scar, so I guess when he was a baby?”

 

Voldemort stopped abruptly. His eyes were wide but unseeing.

 

No. It couldn’t be.

 

But what else could it be? Suddenly, pieces began to fall into place. Yes Harry would one day be the Master of Death, an astounding title of great power, but still Voldemort didn’t understand why he’d ever make the decision to marry him. Have him as an ally, yes. Work with him, yes. But _marry_ him? It seemed rather excessive. Quite frankly, Voldemort intended to live forever, he had no need for heirs, no matter how powerful. So while it was true his union with Potter could clearly produce powerful heirs, he didn’t think even that would be enough to spur him into marrying his most hated adversary. He had never had any interest in pursuing a romantic relationship with anyone; no one had ever seemed worthy, and it had never seemed worth the effort.

 

But if Harry was his horcrux… that changed everything.

 

Now it all made sense. He would want both the Master of Death and the keeper of his soul to be bound to him irrevocably. If Harry was his horcrux, it was no wonder he wanted to keep the boy securely by his side. Permanently and inescapably bound to him, not just through an alliance but by marriage as well.

 

For a moment, he lost sight of the hallway around him, his mind wandering to the memories of a future that hasn’t—and might never—happen. Harry, staring at him with fond affection as he worked in the library, and something sweeter and yet far more sorrowful; something like longing, or regret. Even though they were standing in their personal library not even a few meters apart, to Harry, it had felt like they may as well still be in entirely different dimensions. Harry felt as if he couldn’t close the distance between them, even as bound together as they were. He was never far from the boy’s thoughts; in the same way his soul was never far from the boy’s own soul.

 

He’d thought Harry had just been waxing poetic, but it appeared he had been quite literal.

 

He closed his eyes for a moment, trying to feel for a bond that had apparently been there all along.

 

When he opened them, Saiph was staring up at him with obvious worry. Now was not really the time to notice how remarkably well his and Harry’s features looked together, but he found himself contemplating it anyway. “...Father?” The boy asked, hesitantly.

 

He would forever deny it, but his hand briefly rose to brush the boy’s hair back. “I’ve found him.”

 

 

  
  
  


 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> big s/o to macross82-99 for making 火野 レイ and skee for showing to to me. I am OBSESSED. I haven't been this in love with a song since yebisu, and I named a story after it despite having zero relevancy to the plot. 
> 
> sorry for the typos, literally finished it last night lol. It's not that I don't have ideas for this story - more like I have too many of them. It took me forever to decide what I wanted to happen, and I still don't know if I want this plot line, or if it'll change as the story continues.


	5. セーラーベイビ

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Surprised with the update? Yeah same. Hot off the press, so I haven't really had time to proofread it.

/

Voldemort scowled down at the boy sleeping on the couch. Harry slept on, blissfully ignorant to all the trouble he caused.

"My Lord…" Severus began, deferential. A narrowed look from Voldemort halted that before the potions master could speak further.

He wasn't sure whether Severus finding him would be a hindrance or an asset. As it was, he supposed there could have been worse alternatives. Severus, at least, had the good sense to report to him  _first,_ as opposed to letting his bloodlust get the better of him and dragging the boy down to the dungeons. But Severus was… a curious character. His loyalty was forever in question, no matter how high esteem the Dark Lord might hold him in. He walked a fine line between himself and Dumbledore, giving each side enough information to seem loyal without tipping his hand.

Voldemort could always just command his silence. Severus would have to comply, being the sole person to see the boy. If the Order got wind of the information, he would know exactly who to blame, and exactly where Severus' loyalty lay. The man would be dead within the hour, and the potions master undoubtedly knew that. And if there was one thing he could say about Severus Snape, it was that the man had impeccable self-preservation instincts. Potter could learn a thing or two from him.

The Dark Lord tilted his head consideringly, well aware that his piercing gaze was no doubt making the other man uncomfortable and apprehensive.

On the other hand, Dumbledore would find out one way or another. Does it really matter if it is now or a few months from now? Yes, he decided. It did matter. Harry would go to Hogwarts and raise holy hell if Voldemort even dared to try to keep him from it, and he didn't like the idea of the boy being under the old man's thumb when Dumbledore  _knew_ Voldemort had an interest in him that wasn't strictly homicidal.

"You will tell no one of this." He commanded imperiously.

Severus bowed low. "Yes, my Lord."

Voldemort eyed him critically for another moment. Well, best to make use of him while he's here, he supposed. "Assess the boy," he demanded, gesturing to the sleeping Harry on the couch. "He appears to be in some kind of unnatural sleep."

Severus allowed his eyes to drift to Potter. "A magical sleep, you say?" The man murmured, moving to check the boy. "Does my Lord have any ideas as to what might cause it?"

Voldemort contemplated how to answer without giving anything away. "The cause is irrelevant." He decided upon. "What matters now is the state of his current health."

Severus nodded, crouching down next to Potter to check his pulse.

The Dark Lord's eyes turned to the boy on the couch who was, quite literally, pulling a sleeping beauty right now. Voldemort sneered. There was no way he was going to attempt to wake the boy up with a kiss. How positively droll.

Considering Potter's absolutely nonsensical existence though, the idea unfathomably had merit. Nothing about Potter made sense, so who knows, maybe a magical kiss really will break his sleep? It made just about as much sense as an oblivious teenage boy managing to stumble his way out of his impenetrable wards and into an innocuous sitting room in Malfoy Manor. The Dark Lord scowled at the very thought, still thoroughly displeased. How  _did_ the boy manage to do it? Voldemort's wards were perfect— not even the best ward-breakers could ever hope to dismantle them. And then there is Potter, who probably doesn't have any training in warding at all, tearing through them in a matter of seconds. He doubted it was even intentional. More than likely Harry didn't even  _notice_ when he broke through the strongest wards short of blood bound barriers.

Voldemort could easily imagine Harry's explanation:  _I didn't mean to, it was an accident, I just got lost._  The boy's sense of direction was appalling— he wouldn't be surprised in the least to hear this whole scenario was caused by a wrong turn.

Severus stood then. "He appears to be in perfectly good health." The potions professor proclaimed. "His heart rate, blood pressure, and internal organs all appear to be in perfect condition."

The man paused. "I was unable to accurately assess his magical core."

"Unable?" Voldemort repeated, raising a brow.

Severus looked ashamed with himself, but that could very well just be a ruse. "I apologize, my Lord. I tried several spells, but I'm afraid my medical knowledge is rudimentary. There is some kind of barrier. Perhaps taking him to a healer would be—

"Absolutely not." Voldemort interrupted coldly. He knew exactly what Severus was trying to do here. "He stays here."  _With me,_  he left unsaid.

Severus bowed his head. "As you request, my Lord."

Voldemort paused for an offbeat moment, his silence drawing Severus' interested glance.

The Dark Lord's gaze was strangely intense as he stared down at the sleeping boy. "Is he— Does it appear as if he is in pain?"

Severus blinked, clearly caught off guard by the question. "No. There are no signs of elevated stress levels— more than likely he isn't feeling anything currently."

"Very well then," the Dark Lord replied, his voice cold and his expression even colder. "You are dismissed, Severus. And remember—  _if you dare to defy me, I will know._ "

Severus looked properly alarmed at the reminder— the second, from his Lord. It piqued his interest certainly, but he would not remark upon it. Nor would he attempt to betray the Dark Lord in this.

Oddly enough, Potter really did appear to be in good health. And the Dark Lord's demeanor could perhaps even be considered… concerned? He appeared strangely invested, at the very least. Severus decided that his best course of action would be to keep silent on the matter and observe closely. It might not be what Dumbledore would want, but at the end of the day what Dumbledore wants is not always the best course of action. The boy-who-lived disappearing from his guarded home predictably caused an uproar within the Order, with members frantically searching for him all over the city. They were convinced Potter had been abducted, but Severus had privately thought otherwise. More than likely, the stupid brat had gone galavanting off on his own like the simple-minded buffoon he was, found his way into trouble, and was now in need of a rescue.

Severus had assumed he would be in some kind of danger. But he could have never imagined that the boy would manage to get himself quite literally into the jaws of death.

Only Potter would get himself into this kind of mess. How in the name of Merlin did he manage to pull this stunt off? Severus was, truly, impressed. This was incredible, even for Potter.

While the idea of the missing boy being  _here,_  with the bloody Dark Lord of all places, was beyond alarming, Severus did not know if that was enough to jeopardize the years of work he'd put into maintaining his cover as a spy. He appeared fine, for now. If the situation changed he would be forced into action, but for now it was better to wait and see.

His own situation was too precarious to risk culling Voldemort's disfavor. As of now, the Dark Lord did not trust him, but still looked upon him somewhat favorably, especially in the aftermath of Lucius's fall from grace. He was on the knife's edge, now more than ever, and he needed to maintain his current position— for Draco, if nothing else.

Damn Potter. Always forcing him into difficult situations.

"Your faith in me is not misplaced, my Lord." Severus bowed again.

Voldemort didn't look assured by the words in the least, but he still let him go with little to no fanfare, seemingly more preoccupied with Potter. Curious, that. Hopefully he would have the opportunity to glean more at a later time.

The Dark Lord made certain Severus was an adequate distance away before he gave up the pretense of indifference and made his way to Potter's side. He carefully brushed away the unruly dark locks, revealing the infamous scar. With an almost reverent hand, he grazed his finger against the lightning shaped mark. Since his resurrection, touching Harry was no longer painful. He hadn't looked into the matter any more than that, but upon further inspection he thought the touch to be almost… comforting? It was the opposite of painful. If anything, it seemed rather magnetic, drawing him closer.

Was there truly a part of his soul, locked within this scrap of a boy?

The idea seemed truly ludicrous. And yet, it made complete sense. Their connection has always been a rather curious area of study. He hadn't yet had the time to research the matter in depth, but he had never heard of two people sharing a connection the way he and Harry did. Being able to access each other's minds in such a fluid, almost instinctual manner; Harry's scar hurting in tandem with his own emotions; even Harry's parseltongue ability made sense now.

His fingers continued to graze against the lightning scar. He wondered if he was actually feeling a slight pulling sensation, or if he was merely imagining it. The piece of his soul inside the boy was put there accidentally, so it was not nearly as large as his intentional horcruxes. And yet, he could feel Harry far more intimately than any of his other horcruxes. Was that simply because Harry was human, while they were objects? Nagini was alive as well, but he could not sense her the way he could Harry. He could not track her down the cavernous halls of Malfoy Manor, through mere feeling alone.

His hand reluctantly left the boy's forehead. He didn't understand where this unwillingness to move away from the boy was coming from. It had certainly never happened before.

At any rate, he took a deliberate step back to survey the boy in full. If what Severus said was true, then this situation might be more dire than it outwardly appears. To be rendered magically unconscious like this, completely without cause, was concerning. It meant that the issue was stemming from an internal source, which could really mean anything.

Harry had seemed in perfect health, though.

Well, aside from when he  _died_  earlier this morning.

Voldemort's brow twitched.

Yes. He imagined such an event would be more than enough to cause unforeseen circumstances. If the boy woke up, Voldemort would make sure that this whole mess taught him a lesson on ignorance and thoughtlessness.  _When,_  not if. Voldemort refused to entertain any other scenario.

He casted the same spell Severus had earlier, one healers used to assess the state of their patient's magical core. As his follower had stated, there was some kind of barrier obscuring the results. He frowned, before casting a mild tickling charm. It didn't even touch the boy's skin— hitting some kind of invisible barrier and dissolving on impact. And yet, Voldemort could touch the boy without any issue, and so could Severus.

"Father?" A quiet voice broke his musings.

Saiph stood in the doorway, looking as if he had half a mind to turn around and run away before his father could reply.

This time, the boy had adequate reason to be intimidated by him.

"Did I not tell you to remain in my chambers?" He remarked, frostily.

Saiph had the good decency to look guilty— unlike other parties who will not be named, that refuse to admit wrong— scuffing the floor with his shoe as he looked down. "Sorry," he said, although they both knew he wasn't all that sorry.

Voldemort just made a disgruntled noise. The damage was already done. If the boy had followed him all the way here, there was really no point in sending him back. More than that, he felt slightly more settled knowing Saiph was nearby, safe and in good health. If Saiph was anything like his mother, he was likely to find himself trouble the moment Voldemort let him out of his sight.

He turned back to his observation of Harry as the child drew closer. When the boy finally rounded the sofa he sucked in a sharp, horrified breath.

"Harry!" He cried, darting towards him.

Harry did not stir, not even at the pained cry of his child's voice.

Saiph kneeled next to the boy's prone form, growing pale. "What happened? What's wrong with him? Is he going to be okay?"

The questions came rapidfire and strewn together, so it took a moment for him to process them. "He is in a magical sleep. As he had so stupidly run off earlier, I have no insight into what could have caused this."

Saiph looked more and more dismayed the more he spoke.

"He is currently in good physical health, but that is all I know of his condition." He ended, frowning. "Has this ever happened in the future?"

Saiph shook his head. "No. How long has he been like this?"

Voldemort considered the question. "Hours, perhaps."

"Hours?" Saiph repeated, head snapping back to stare at Harry's expressionless face. He looked shaken by the eerie lack of emotion on a boy who always seemed to wear his emotions on his sleeve.

Voldemort privately agreed. It was rather disconcerting to see the boy like this; Harry was rarely without an expression, be that explosive anger or radiant enthusiasm. Emotions ran rampant in him, that was for sure. He eyed his son critically. He had a feeling excessive emotions ran rampant in  _all_ of them.

Saiph reached up to curl his hand against Harry's. "It's cold." He noticed, his voice shaky.

"He has a lower temperature than usual, but he is also stationary and has been for some time." Voldemort replied, not sounding particularly concerned.

"Is he— is he dying?"

"If he is there are no outward signs of it." Came the Dark Lord's droll response. "And I thought we had established that it is impossible for him."

Trust his father to remain completely unaffected no matter the situation. "I— That's not entirely true." Saiph spoke quietly, running his thumb up and down the back of Harry's hand, fingers curling around his wrist. His pulse was steady, but it was very faint and slow. His father peered down at him curiously, clearly waiting for him to continue. Saiph tried to think back to what Ceph had said on the matter.

"I think Ceph called it— conditional immortality?" He tried to recall, brow furrowing. "I think it has a name but I can't remember it. Anyway it just means that a lot of things won't hurt him, but there are a lot of things that still can."

At last, the Dark Lord's indifferent expression finally broke. He no longer looked bored and vaguely exasperated; if anything there was a growing concern in that normally impassive gaze. "What sort of things?" He asked, alarmed.

"He can't be killed by physical means, and he doesn't age. The killing curse doesn't work on him either." Saiph added, although considering the infamy of that particular talent it didn't need to be said. "Most spells and poisons and stuff are useless too."

Saiph grew quiet, thinking back on what his elder brother had to say on the matter. He'd asked Harry once, but predictably he got a very vague and cryptic answer in response. Harry had said that everyone lives forever in some manner, his was just a different form. He doesn't know anyone else that can claim immortality besides his father, so that didn't make any sense. But Harry had also said that there was no such thing as true immortality— at least not in the way most people think of it.

Talking to his mother or his father about such existential things was always a headache, so Saiph tended to avoid it. Ceph wasn't much better in that regard; instead of giving him elusive and enigmatic answers, his were so scientific they tended to be needlessly long and way over Saiph's head.

Aster, at least, could boil things down into rudimentary and easily digestible summarizations, which always made her the best person to go to whenever Saiph had a homework question. But even Aster didn't bother to try to explain immortality, or anything that had to do with being the Master of Death.

Sometimes Saiph wondered if even Harry himself knew what it meant to be the Master of Death.

"And what sort of things is he not immune to?" Voldemort pressed, surfacing Saiph from his thoughts.

"I really don't know." Saiph admitted. "But I do know that there are 'forces in the universe that are beyond comprehension' so I guess it's stuff like that." That's what Ceph called them, which made just about as much sense as everything else out of that particular lecture.

The Dark Lord was silent for some time.

"So he can be killed, then." He surmised, woodenly.

Saiph glanced up at him, but found his expression had gone cold once again.

Yes, it was possible, despite the chances being relatively slim.

Saiph gasped sharply, eyes snapping open as he all but scrambled to his feet, grabbing Harry's other hand as well. He held them both, gripping them harder than he probably should be. He was positive the faint beats were growing slower. Saiph knew nothing about healing magic, and he was fairly sure the same could be said of his father. He had a feeling this situation was far beyond what either of their mediocre skills could handle. He had always been extremely sensitive to magic, being able to sense such small nuances as auras and soul types. It was a trait he had inherited from Harry, one he passed on to all of his children. At any rate, this just meant that Voldemort could not feel the flickering life source slowly cooling inside of Harry.

"His magic is fading," Saiph choked out.

Voldemort was beside him in mere moments, taking one of Harry's hands out of his grip to cover it in his own. Saiph could tell the moment the man felt what he had, the Dark Lord's features growing even more impassive. It looked as if the man was feeling nothing at all, but Harry had always said the less emotion his father showed the more emotions he had.

"You can sense his magic?" Voldemort asked, intrigued.

Saiph nodded. "I'm not very good at it yet though." He sighed. Ceph or Aster probably could have figured out the problem if they were here.

Voldemort considered the boy in a new light. Fascinating. While monitoring spells and magic of any kind could not cross the barrier, apparently Saiph's inherent ability had no issue. He wondered if it was because of the nature of Saiph's powers, or because subconsciously Harry's magic recognized the boy and allowed him passage. Only incredibly strong magicians had magic so powerful it could take on a kind of sentience on its own— he supposed he shouldn't be surprised to find Harry is one of those people.

"It's different than usual though," Saiph continued, tremulous. "And it's definitely not as strong."

Voldemort resisted the urge to rub his temples.

As if he didn't have enough problems already. Now the insufferable boy had managed to get himself into what was quickly appearing to be a life-threatening situation. One that Voldemort had no idea how to fix. Much like Saiph's predicament, he didn't know enough about the cause to accurately conjecture a solution. It was… incredibly frustrating. He was unused to being so incredibly uninformed.

Saiph bit his lip, hard enough to draw blood, as he gazed down at Harry's resting face. He looked frozen. Even in his sleep Harry's features twisted with dreams. This blankness was unnatural and extremely unsettling to see. It made Harry look like he was dead or something.

That might just become a very real reality soon enough, what with how quickly Saiph could feel the boy's magical core draining. He didn't understand. Why was it doing this? It was as if all of Harry's magic was leaving him. What had caused it?

It was as he felt Harry's magic dwindling beneath his own hands that the realization crashed into him;  _he had caused this._

This was all his fault.

His mother was dying and it was all his fault. It could be any magnitude of events that set this off, but ultimately the chain started with Saiph. Saiph's mere presence had been the main catalyst to set off the series of events that led to this.

Harry had told him, earlier, that he was actually happy to have Saiph in his life like this. If he had known what Saiph's existence would do to him just a few hours later, he'd probably take back those words.

The spark underneath his fingertips crackled lightly, like an ember on its last flames. Suddenly, he was overwhelmed with such a maelstrom of emotion he wouldn't be able to pinpoint what he was feeling if he tried. He couldn't take it anymore. This. Everything. He didn't even know.

And then, to Voldemort's total horror, he took off.

One moment the boy is leaning over Potter, and the next he's shooting out of the room like a rocket. The Dark Lord had half a second to stare at him incredulously, before he swept out of the room to go after him. He had no idea what was going on in that child's head, but clearly he needed some sense talked into him. He warded the room on the way out, confident that with Harry comatose there was no one who could possibly break through them, and took off down the hall, following the sounds of erratic footsteps.

/

Saiph wasn't entirely sure why he bolted out of the room, but once he started running he couldn't stop.

His chest felt small, constricting his breath so tightly he could barely breath. He was fairly sure he was having some kind of anxiety attack, but he didn't stop until he had burst through a set of double doors and all but tumbled into the lawns. The fresh air and sunlight made it easier to breath, but didn't lift the weight from his chest. His knees buckled underneath him, and he ended up crouched on the ground, burying his head against his knees.

This was all his fault.

Harry was dying right now and it was  _all his fault._

Oh Merlin. Another sob choked through his throat.

This wasn't supposed to happen— these recent events more or less just confirmed it. Because time-travel of greater distances than twenty-four hours was impossible, the more likely scenario was that Saiph had traveled to a different reality entirely. Saiph didn't have to be uncannily smart for his age to figure out what that meant.

Saiph wasn't supposed to be here.

He wasn't supposed to  _exist_ here.

Everything he'd done so far, everything he touched… he had changed them all. Ruined them, most likely.

Harry was dying— and this time, he didn't think he would be getting up again afterwards.

Aside from the display earlier that morning, Saiph had witnessed one of Harry's miraculous recoveries himself on more than one occasion, but it had never been like this.

There was one memory that immediately sprung to mind. Harry had been gravely injured; the smell of blood was overwhelming. From the brief glimpse he managed to get before his father shut the door, it was well warranted. It was all over his father's shirt when he commanded his older siblings to keep him and his younger sister far away. Saiph didn't want to obey, fearing for Harry's life and wanting to be by his side. The decision was made for him soon enough. An incredible explosion of magic erupted from Harry's room. Harry was so powerful that his magic was easily discernible to most people, but never like this. A black mist soaked the corridor, seeping out from the edges of the closed door. The door itself seemed to be covered in a black miasma, so thick and electrifying it made the hairs on the back of his hand stand up like static.

That was how Harry's magic reacted when the Master of Death grew too close to transitioning between planes himself. It exploded outwards, as if to protect him.

If anything, Harry's magic should be growing exponentially right now, not draining away like this.

 _But why would it,_  he thought, sadly,  _Mum isn't the Master of Death right now. He doesn't have that strange black magic._

"Saiph," the boy stilled at the familiar voice, as his father strolled out of the manor. "What in Merlin's name possessed you to run off like that?"

He looked up, unsure if what he felt was relief or terror. "Dad…" It just slipped out; Saiph forgetting himself in his moment of panic.

An irritated expression crossed his father's face, as his brow twitched at such an unmannered form of address.

"What has gotten into you?" His father continued on, ignoring that last comment or maybe just letting it slide for now, as he continued lecturing, "This is not the sort of place to be wandering about unawares; or have you learned nothing from Harry's predicament? Did you even bring your wand? Do you have any idea how easy it would be for one of my followers to mistake you as a trespasser and haul you down to the dungeons?"

Saiph looked up at him with wide, grave eyes, pale and shaking like a leaf. He looked small and fragile and very much so his age. Those familiar green eyes were wet and shiny, as he dropped his gaze back down to the ground.

"No," he said, in a small voice.

Voldemort did not look satisfied in the least with that answer. "Do you have any sort of explanation for yourself? This sort of behavior is unacceptable, Saiph."

The familiarity of this kind of lecture would have reassured Saiph if he didn't feel so miserable right now. Voldemort sounded exactly as he would a few decades from now; irritably impatient, with an underlying tenor of concern. But right now Saiph couldn't even bring himself to feel even the slightest bit of fond exasperation; there was nothing left in him but a painful sadness and regret. Harry was unconscious and maybe even dying. Dying for real this time.

The longer Saiph went without reply, the angrier the dark lord grew.

Voldemort made an admirable attempt to reign in his temper. "Is there a reason you stormed off like that?"

Saiph shook his head rapidly, biting his lip. "It was nothing." He replied, downcast.

Voldemort didn't reply for a moment, as if waiting for a more forthcoming explanation. When none came, he continued on. "If that's all you have to say for yourself then I suppose this conversation is pointless, or can wait until later, at the very least. We will return immediately—

And then, to his absolute horror, Saiph burst into tears.

His eyes had begun to burn fiercely, and finally he had to squeeze them shut and press both hands to them to stop his tears from falling. Unfortunately it didn't work, and then he was crying in earnest.

Voldemort's eyes widened in terror. "Don't you dare cry." He commanded hysterically, although that was a lost cause.

"I'm sorry!" Saiph hiccuped, sniffing loudly. "I'm trying not to…"

His expression crumpled. "But I just…"

The young boy didn't continue, sniffling again as he rubbed his eyes.

For a long moment, Voldemort just simply watched him in stunned disbelief. When it became clear the boy didn't intend to stop crying, he grew distinctly uncomfortable.

By Merlin, this child made no sense. He went from frantic to scared to panicking to outright tears before Voldemort could even hope to figure out what was wrong with him. He winced at the sound of the boy's tears, trying to bear it for a moment before ultimately realizing he just couldn't handle it. He would prefer hysterics or yelling to this; at least Voldemort knew how to handle those. Finally Voldemort looked around with an incredulous expression, as if he couldn't believe this was actually happening to him. His look turned consternated as his lips thinned and he walked forward, until he could crouch down eye level with Saiph.

"Cease this melodrama immediately," he commanded, but his tone was far softer.

Saiph sniffled again, but did not resist as Voldemort grabbed his hands and pulled them away from his face - and if he was being far too gentle, no one was around to see it anyway. "Crying will never solve anything," he told the boy. "When you encounter problems, you must think them through thoroughly and come up with a solution. Becoming emotional over it will only be a hindrance."

 _Easy for you to say_ , Saiph thinks, annoyed, but he knew better than to interrupt his father in the middle of a sermon. Not to mention, the man was actually being nice for a change.

The boy swallowed thickly. "But what if you can't find a solution?" He returned, in a low and defeated voice.

"You think about the problem in a different way." His father answered. Then he paused, before adding; "Or you find resources that may enlighten you. If that fails, find someone knowledgeable on the subject."

Saiph blinked through his tears, still sniffling slightly.

"Is that what you do?"

"Yes, obviously." He replied, looking exasperated with all this emotional drama.

Saiph cracked a smile at that. "But I thought you knew everything."

"Don't get smart." He retorted, darkly. At the very least, the boy looked to be in marginally better spirits. "Now, are you going to tell me what's wrong, or are you going to continue to wallow in your own self pity?"

Saiph's expression fell. "I… this is all my fault."

Voldemort frowned. "What in particular are you referring to? Last I checked, you are not responsible for Potter's actions."

Saiph shook his head frantically. "But— but he wouldn't have done that if it wasn't for me! I'm changing everything… I'm  _messing up_ everything. This isn't supposed to happen!" By the end of it he was once again rubbing at his eyes.

"You can't say that for certain," Voldemort pointed out, after a beat. "There are no congruent theories on time travel of this magnitude. For all we know, you may not even be from this dimension at all."

Saiph's eyes widened into saucers. "What?" He whispered, alarmed.

"There are a few varying scenarios to consider, but from what I understand of your situation it is more likely that you have created an alternate timeline— a fork in the road, if you will." Voldemort was in full lecture mode, so he completely missed the horrified and devastated look growing on his son's face.

"This would then infer that your own timeline no longer applies to this one, as your presence has already changed things."

"Does that mean I can't go back?" His breath hitched in fear.

Voldemort finally turned to look at him. "No. Perhaps, even, the chances of returning you are higher than they would have been if you had truly traveled back in time. Time may be nonlinear, but it is still incredibly stringent. If what you say is true, and these events did not happen in your timeline, than most likely you come from a different timeline entirely."

Saiph wasn't sure how to feel about that. "Well… I'm not entirely certain this didn't happen." He admitted. "But if it did, I've never heard a word about it."

The Dark Lord made a noncommittal noise. "Then we will leave the avenue open as a plausibility. For now, however, I am more inclined to believe you are from a separate timeline."

Saiph had no thoughts on the matter either way, and just shrugged, wrapping his arms around himself as a cold breeze swept past.

"I still shouldn't have come here." He said, quietly.

Voldemort glanced at him. "We still don't know if it was intentional, so there's no point in feeling guilty over it."

Saiph wrapped his arms even tighter around himself, forcing down a shiver of fear. "How can you even say that?" He cried with dismay. "I caused this. All of it. Harry could— Harry could be  _dying_ and it's all my fault!"

Voldemort paused for a moment, watching the boy curl in on himself. He was crying, again, tears streaking down his face as he sniffled. Obviously Voldemort's poor attempts at comforting him were failing.

Voldemort had never felt so inadequate in his life. He had never been envious of anyone, ever, not when he knew his own superiority was vastly above everyone else— except these days he found himself constantly envious of Harry Potter of all people. Unfortunately, Harry would know exactly what to say to the boy; he would know how to handle the situation, how to make Saiph feel better. Voldemort, on the other hand, was probably just making the situation worse.

In a very odd moment of foresight and self-awareness, it occurred to him that Saiph did not need Harry at this moment— he needed Voldemort, however inadequate he may actually be. He didn't need all the right words; he just needed  _him._

Not for the first time he wondered why the hell he decided to have kids.

He had already explained why this line of thinking was illogical, or at the very least unwarranted, but it was clear it wasn't working. He tried a different tactic. "Do you really think Harry would want you to blame yourself?"

This effectively gave the child pause. "No." He admitted, quietly.

Another chilly breeze swept past them; Saiph shivered again, looking small and miserable as he stared at the ground.

"I do not believe in fate— and neither does Harry." He found himself repeating Potter's words from earlier, finding them ringing truer as the day wore onl. "There is no preordained right or wrong way for things to happen; just because this is not the way things happened in your own timeline, doesn't mean it's wrong. So don't even begin to think such thoughts, am I clear?"

The boy nodded silently, rubbing his eyes. "...Yeah."

The Dark Lord observed him quietly as the boy wiped his tears away. Even for Saiph— who Voldemort found to be an exceptionally sensitive child (not that he had any real experience with children)— this was a surprisingly strong reaction. The boy had immediately jumped to the worst conclusion possible; he was genuinely and wholeheartedly terrified that Harry's death was imminent. It was almost as if there was some kind of precedence for this, but Saiph had already said this had never happened before.

Come to think of it, his reaction earlier today was also rather strange. Despite knowing a fall like that couldn't kill Harry, Saiph had been almost beside himself. As a general rule of thumb Voldemort had begun to accept that everything the boy did seemed overly emotional and nonsensical to him, so it was difficult to tell if this was just his normal illogical behavior or something more pressing was amiss.

Saiph seemed to have a surprising aversion towards death, considering how intimately his life was intertwined with it.

Voldemort frowned, opening his mouth to ask Saiph if he had ever had any experiences with death before, but the boy spoke before him.

"Um, dad…"

On the subject of being overly emotional and nonsensical— why must he refer to him in such an ungainly manner? It was clear the boy was upset and not doing it intentionally, because once again he was being overly emotional and nonsensical. Voldemort would have to address this at a later date, hopefully when the boy was not as prone to tears as he was now.

"Is it getting kind of cold, or is it just me?"

This stirred him out of his thoughts. He blinked. Yes, come to think of it, the temperature had dropped a startling amount.

His eyes narrowed, head snapping up to the sky, just in time to watch an unnatural gloom overtake the sun.

Saiph made a strangled noise in the back of his throat, leaning into him to grasp his hand.

Their forms were unmistakable, even as far away as they were.

Dementors.

/

Why here? Voldemort wondered, frown deepening.

Was it the Ministry? Were they coming to finally arrest Lucius? He wouldn't be unsurprised in the least; he had been waiting for it, actually. And after the man's abysmal performance this summer Voldemort thought he could use a bit of time in Azkaban as punishment. But if they were to raid Malfoy Manor, why would they use Dementors to do it? Perhaps Fudge was, once again, attempting to skirt the due process of the law and just have the Dementor's kiss Lucius without any trial to speak of. Did he not learn how abysmal a political failure it was from the last time he attempted to do so, with Sirius Black?

The ineptitude of the Ministry still managed to astound him at times. But he wouldn't put it past the man to send Dementors out to take care of Lucius, and attempt to cover it all up as a conveniently timed but purely unrelated death.

And as much as Lucius currently displeased him, he still had his uses.

He warily eyed the circling dementors as they made their slow descent, knowing full well how dangerous the creatures were.

While he had begun tentative negotiations to court the Dementors fully to his side, he had yet to make much progress with them. They were a lawless lot, and had no sense of loyalty. The only real way to ensure their obedience was by providing them with a steady diet of souls to feast upon. Unfortunately he didn't currently have enough prisoners to provide that, but he expected to change that in the coming year.

At any rate, all this just meant that these Dementors were currently his enemies, and they were coming towards them now at an alarming speed.

Saiph stared up at them, mouth in a thin line. While he had appeared terrified earlier, the fear had left him surprisingly quickly; he was still keeping close to his side, but that seemed to be more of a cautious reaction than a terrified one.

"Dementors." Saiph said, unnecessarily, as they both clearly knew quite well what they were.

"Uninvited guests, yes." Voldemort agreed.

Saiph bit his lip. "... I don't know how to cast a Patronus charm." He admitted, sounding disappointed with himself.

Voldemort had no idea why, though. "That is nothing to be ashamed over; it's not an easy charm to master. Most wizards don't ever learn it in their lifetime."

As it had been the sole charm Voldemort had never been able to master, he had researched the subject in depth.

Saiph continued to look discouraged. "Harry learned how to cast it when he was thirteen." The boy revealed.

Voldemort refused to admit to being impressed.

Saiph sighed, shaking his head then. "Well, I guess it's fine though, since you can cast one."

The Dark Lord didn't know what to say.

Clearly he was silent for too long, for Saiph's head snapped up as he gazed at him incredulously. "Wait… you can, right?"

"It was never a charm I was interested in learning." He lied.

"You don't know how to cast a patronus?" Saiph reiterated, still looking shocked.

"Of course I know  _how._ " He bristled. And then, after a beat "That being said, knowing  _the theory_ behind the charm and actually being able to execute it are too entirely separate things…"

"Oh." Saiph frowned up at him, easily reading what his father  _wasn't_ saying. His quiet look was full of sympathy, which he quickly hid before his father could see it. He frowned further then, as he realized the problem.

It's not that his father didn't know the charm— he merely had no memories to execute it.

It made something horrible and sad curl up in the pit of his stomach. It had never occurred to him that his father's childhood— the one he absolutely did not speak of, ever— would of course put him in this kind of predicament. Saiph had never been told the exact details, although he did know that his father grew up in an orphanage. Saiph could imagine it was a very lonely experience. But to not have a single pure and honest happy memory, even after all this time?

Saiph knew his father could cast a Patronus, in his time. He was fairly sure he'd even seen it, when he was very young. So clearly at some point Voldemort made memories that were happy enough to be of use. It wasn't hard to guess what had changed; more than likely the memories the dark lord used were memories of Harry, or of his children.

And the Voldemort of this time had no such memories to speak of.

"What if— what if I gave you a memory?" An idea came to Saiph, as he tugged at his father's sleeve urgently. "Would that work?"

Voldemort was rendered speechless for a moment. His mind whirled through calculations. Would that work? It was not so much the memory as it was the emotion it elicited that gave the charm its impressive power; so therefore would the memory itself actually be negligible?

The air around them grew colder. Above them, the sky had darkened considerably; black shadows whirled in the clouds, circling like vultures, coming closer as every minute passed.

There was no other choice; they'd simply have to try and hope for the best.

"Show it to me."

Saiph closed his eyes, bringing the first memory he could think of to the forefront. When he opened them, his father was crouching down in front of him, eyes level with his own. The memory swirled before his eyes.

_Outwardly, the manor appeared unchanged. But apparently the inside was completely uninhabitable, and completely contaminated with dry rot that was eating up all the wood and spreading fungi all over the place. The culprit of this was, of course, the sheepish teenager standing next to him. Ceph swore it was an accident— it was_ _**always** _ _an accident with Cepheus, though._

_His father was less than pleased. Not only would the work on the manor take a long time, but it would also be endlessly noisy and would need to be done day and night in order to fix it in a timely manner. And of course Harry had used the opportunity to sneak in some of the renovations he'd been nagging about, updating the kitchen and redoing the living room, making the process longer. He insisted they may as well, if the house already needed fixing. Aster whined for a pool as well, but neither his mother nor his father cared to hear any of it. Aster and Ceph were still in the doghouse, after all._

_Still, renovations or not the repairs would not be done in a day, so they would have to relocate elsewhere for the time being._

_This was not particularly problematic, they had many other houses to move to, and that was to say nothing of the properties Harry owned in other realms (none of which Saiph had ever been allowed to see). It was just as his father was imperiously deciding that they would retire to the house in Marrakech, when Harry clapped his hands and decided this would be a perfect opportunity for a camping trip. It was summer break, after all._

_His father near gaped at him at that, but Harry paid him no heed. Ceph and Aster cheered, more than excited to end up covered in mud. Even Cassi, hoisted up in his father's arms, was ecstatic at the idea of roasting marshmallows. Saiph was honestly just happy to spend any time with his family, no matter where they were._

_His father of course was absolutely livid. He refused to engage in something so pedantic as a camping trip._

_Harry just laughed and stole Cassi away from him, distracting him with a well-timed kiss as he told Ceph and Aster to go find some of their magical tents._

_In the end, despite his father's grumblings, they compromised on spending a night outdoors on the lawns— close enough for the house elves to still be at their beck and call, but still far enough into the grassy fields behind the mansion that it seemed like they had actually gone somewhere. Harry had managed to wrangle out a whole summer vacation plan out of the whole event; tonight they would pretend-camp in the backyard, tomorrow they would venture to Marrakech and spend a few days there, before migrating to the townhouse in Vienna for a few days. Aster begged for a few days in Milan— for fashion, of course— while Ceph wanted to spend at least an afternoon in Petra, if not a whole day, so he could visit archeological dig sites. His father shot both of them down, reminding them that all of this damage was entirely their fault. Aster protested her status as an unwilling accomplice, but everyone ignored that on general principle._

_The evening passed without any real quarreling, aside from Saiph and Aster arguing over marshmallow roasting techniques. Ceph taught Sai how to conjure birds and butterflies to make patterns in the fading afternoon light, and Aster chased Cassi around with firefly guts painted across her cheeks like glowing war paint. His parents preferred to remain under the canopy of their luxurious tent, resting among the lush pillows and blankets, and occasionally Harry even managed to startle a laugh out of his father every once in a while, clearly entertaining the man with whatever story he was telling._

_Eventually they all tired themselves out enough to crawl back towards them. Cassiopeia fell asleep first, passed out cold in Harry's arms. His two older siblings stayed up a little longer to chat with his parents, and Sai made a valiant effort to remain awake too. He wasn't a baby! He could stay up late too— he didn't need a bedtime! But he was snuggled up against his father's chest, and it felt very cozy and comfortable here, with his father's arm warm and strong around him. He dozed off like that, enjoying the fingers in his hair, and the steady heartbeat against his ear._

Voldemort could tell this was an older memory, not only because the children were all quite clearly much younger than they had been in Saiph's more recent memories, but also because of the incredible amount of emotion it carried with it.

It was clear that this was one of Saiph's most precious memories, one that the boy cherished beyond words, one he probably thought back to when he was sad or upset. The memory was softened by constant use but still crystal clear, as if Saiph thought on it a lot— he felt humbled and oddly grateful to be able to witness it.

 _So that damned whale shark was good for something after all,_  he thought, as he stood up to his full height, wand at the ready.

The dark lord didn't know what he had expected of his own patronus.

A snake would have been the obvious manifestation. Really, he had just been curious to see what kind of snake it would be— his money was on a Basilisk. It would be fitting, after all. So imagine his surprise when a magnificent, roaring lion came charging out of his wand. The sight was met with both consternation and resignation; the mighty beast erupted from the tip of his shining yew wand, exploding into the atmosphere with a level of power that was, to be truthful, absolutely exceptional. If he wasn't so irritated by the fact it was a lion of all damn creatures, he would have been impressed with himself. Instead he was irritated with himself and the universe.

Of course his patronus had to be a lion. A damn lion.

He cursed Potter to the depths of hell.

The skies cleared above them, dementors retreating into the upper recesses of the sky in the wake of his patronus. The lion chased them about until all the clouds had cleared, and they were all an acceptably far distance away. They did not leave, he noticed. Instead, they were slight pinpricks of blackness in an otherwise warm and sunny afternoon sky, too far to do any harm but still close enough to see.

As if they were waiting.

He narrowed his eyes at them contemplatively, but decided they weren't much of a threat as of now. Saiph's memory drifted behind his eyes, slowly unspooling as it faded away. It made him wonder what changed between this memory and the situation Saiph had left in the future. He and Harry had seemed… happy. Or content, rather; it worked for them— to echo Saiph's words from what seemed like a lifetime ago, but was really just a week. Clearly what they had was working, whatever it was. Unfortunately, he did not have enough insight to figure out why it  _stopped_ working.

The thought leaves him maudlin and pondering over a future that might never happen. A future that most likely will never happen, if Potter has his way. Voldemort can't really blame him, either, he's not so sure he wants it to happen himself.

"I wonder why they're here," the boy commented, idly.

Voldemort was reluctant to reveal his own theory, so he did not reply.

He wondered if they were going to linger for longer, or would soon leave to report back to the Ministry. Surely the Minister can't be so stupid as to have Dementors parading the area indefinitely? This was an affluent wizarding neighborhood. It would draw attention and indignation soon enough, if it hadn't already.

"Do you think they'll try to come back down?" Saiph asked, fervidly.

"I suppose it would depend on how hungry they are," Voldemort returned.

As he suspected they were not the Dementors' main target, he assumed they were just, as usual, taking victims whenever the opportunity arose. But as Saiph and Voldemort proved themselves to be well protected, he doubted they would be all that interested in a repeat performance.

Saiph nodded. "I guess we should go back inside then." He commented. And then, after a beat; "... I'm sorry I ran off like that. I was just… overwhelmed, I guess."

He supposed that was an adequate enough apology. He nodded. "Don't make a habit out of it." He replied, in an adequate enough acquiescence.

Saiph just smiled up at him. The sight instilled within him a strange warmth, one not unlike the memory the boy had given to him.

In this moment, it was suddenly very apparent why he would choose to have children. Saiph hadn't actually let go of his arm, so they walked back together holding hands. He was struck by an odd sense of deja vu; an image of a much smaller version of Saiph holding his hand as he beamed up at him, babbling away in that carefree way young children tended to do, garden hedges surrounding them. He shook it off quickly, perturbed by the visage.

/

The boy's somewhat lightened mood did not last long.

When they returned, they found Harry just as they had left him. From outward appearances, at any rate. But to Saiph's dismay his pulse was steadily slowing down, and his magic had grown so weak the boy said it was almost completely indiscernible. Voldemort worried he would grow inconsolable once more with the realization, but he managed to keep his water works at bay.

He led them all back to his chambers in the manor, having to spend an irritating amount of time reconstructing his wards. He had placed Harry's prone form in the bedroom the Gryffindor had commandeered for himself, and Saiph refused to leave his side all evening.

This was just as well, as Voldemort would not know how to entertain or console him, and needed the time to research in solitude.

Even after utilizing the resources of his own personal library of dark tomes, the Malfoy's vast libraries, and all the books he could get his hands on in the past few weeks, he was still at a loss. Everything there was on Necromancy were the sort of things he could expect; countless books on inferi and raising the undead, banishing ghosts, and the usual death magic.

His own books on soul theory, diligently collected during his travels in his youth, proved to be just as unhelpful a resource.

Unfathomably, the only book with any real information on the Master of Death was  _The Tales of Beedle the Bard,_ a children's book of all things. Saiph had revealed to him earlier that the story,  _The Tale of the Three Brothers_ , was somehow connected intimately to their family. Voldemort had dismissed his remark as an overestimation, but now that he'd seen Harry's vision of the future, he could admit he had been wrong.

" _You have to tell it as yourself!"_

" _Alright then— well, once upon a time I was just wandering around, minding my own business, going about doing my death thing—_

The memory drifted away from him with the hint of a little girl's laughter, and the sound makes his heart feel as if it's been squeezed by devil's snare.

He shook the memory off as he goes off in search of a copy of the book, wondering why he's become so… unlike himself lately. These sort of memories were stirring up unwanted emotions within him, as if unlocking some silly, fervish childhood dream. He couldn't have been the only orphan who dreamt of family and belonging, but he had thought he'd rid himself of those sort of thoughts a long time ago. He'd murdered what remained of his dirty muggle family, and he'd gladly do it again if he could. He thought he'd long since discarded his weak attachments to such frivolous sentimentalities.

And then a time traveling eleven year-old boy landed right in the middle of his Death Eater meeting.

He'd assured Saiph that he wasn't ruining anything, but he privately had to wonder if he  _was._ Ruining everything, that is. He'd summarily upended everything Voldemort had worked for and turned all his ambitions upside down, completely changing Voldemort's life. Harry Potter had been the bane of his existence for the past sixteen years; he'd made it his life's mission to see to it that the boy was killed in the most painful way possible, preferably by his own hand. He'd intended to get rid of him very shortly in the upcoming year now that his return was made public. Instead he's told the key to his victory might just be the boy who was supposedly prophesized to be his downfall.

And beyond that, not only would Potter somehow prove to be a valuable ally, but also the bearer of his four children.

The more Saiph had attempted to explain to him Harry's role as Master of Death, the easier it was to see how he would become a valuable ally. He was the prophet of dark wizards, after all, and the very force of death itself. He wielded an unimaginable kind of magic that hasn't been seen on this earth since the time of Merlin.

And while he could see now why he would marry the boy and have heirs as well, knowing he was his horcrux, he had severely underestimated how life changing such an event would be.

Marrying someone was more than just a kind of ownership.

It was a forged bond between two people. An inexplicable connection he'd never shared with anyone else. No—  _couldn't_ share with anyone else. He and Harry were so intertwined he felt foolish seeing it only in hindsight. Harry was the keeper of his soul, there was an intimate part of himself kept safe inside that boy; it was Harry's own blood that ran inside his veins now, Harry's blood that had given him this body. Their minds were connected in a way that was unprecedented in the history of magic.

Having heirs was more than just securing a bloodline.

It was telling bedtime stories and impromptu whaleshark-induced family vacations and his son falling fast asleep against his chest, feeling safe and protected in his father's arms. It was the casual way Harry had leaned over to grab their youngest from him, stealing a kiss as he did so.

And these were only the brief glimpses he'd managed to see of this future that may never come to be. There were so many other moments he was missing; the first time he held Saiph in his hands, his gummy toothless smile as he learned how to walk, carrying him through the gardens to lull him to sleep. Right now he could only imagine what it must have been like; at the rate he and Potter were currently going, it might  _only_  ever remain an imagination.

He looked down at the book in his hands. An innocuous leather bound book that had clearly seen better days. It was the Malfoy's copy; he wondered if Narcissa or Lucius used to read this to Draco when he was a child, as Harry had done to their children, in a future that might never come to pass. The image was too easy to see, Harry and a little girl with baby-soft hair, curled up in bed together with a picture book spread between them.

He threw the book down in disgust. Merlin, when did he become so maudlin?

He instead settled down with his own commandeered copy of  _The Sayings of the Desert Fathers,_ vowing to erase such sentimental thoughts from his head.

By the time he emerged from his reading, it was very late. A house elf had come and gone with dinner some time ago, and afterward with a cup of tea. His head was swimming with new theories on what the Master of Death might mean, not just in the literal sense but the impact its emergence may have on society and the world at large; how his own ideals would fit into such a situation; how best to capitalize on his own information on its future rise to power. And yet somehow, despite the gravity and importance of his current train of thought, a part of him still managed to spare a moment to idly worry whether Saiph had eaten or not. That part became larger and larger, until Voldemort realized with consternation that he had effectively pushed his plotting to the side in favor of his concern.

He decided the best way to return to his previous mental state and get the boy out of his mind would be to check on him, for his peace of mind if nothing else.

Unsurprisingly Saiph had not moved from Harry's side; actually he was curled up on top of the covers next to the older boy, his hand grasped in Harry's sleeve. His brow was furrowed in troubled, uneasy sleep.

The Dark Lord called a house elf, inquiring whether the boy ate before he fell asleep. The house elf replied that he had not, and with an irritating huff he told the thing to bring a tray for the boy. In the meanwhile he sat down on the bed, reaching out for the boy's shoulder to wake him up.

He found himself hesitating just before he could touch the boy. There was that feeling again, growing within him, soft and yet overwhelming. He wanted to fight it, as he had been ever since he'd met the child— but after the events of today, he was finding it more and more difficult not to succumb.

Finally, his hand rested against the slope of the boy's shoulder. It was enough to get him to stir out of his restless sleep.

He rolled over, rubbing his eyes. "Father?" He asked, groggily.

At least he'd stopped with that 'dad' nonsense. "You didn't eat dinner." He remarked, as the boy sat up.

Saiph shrugged evasively. "Wasn't hungry."

"Well you should at least try. I doubt Harry will be impressed to hear you've been skipping meals in his absence."

At the mention of Harry, Saiph's expression fell, as his face grew paler. Privately he wondered when he'd begun to use the boy's first name and surname interchangeably, and what it meant that he did.

Saiph turned to look at the sleeping form beside him, features forlorn. "He still hasn't woken up." A rather obvious observation. "And he's so cold." The boy reached out to grab Harry's hand, lying limp atop the sheet.

Voldemort frowned deeply. "His pulse?"

It took a while before Saiph responded. "I can barely feel it." He whispered.

His mouth thinned into a fine line. This was deeply concerning, but it wouldn't do to tell the child that. Fortunately the house elves took the opportune moment to serve food, a tray appearing on the bedside table. Saiph turned to it with a reluctant glance.

"Eat." Voldemort commanded, satisfied when he saw the boy reach for his spoon with a begrudging look.

He watched carefully to monitor the boy's intake, and when he decided the boy had eaten an adequate amount, he stood up. "When you are finished eating, return to your room and make sure to get a proper night's rest." He couldn't believe he was actually having to tell him this; even at eleven, this should be basic knowledge. "Worrying like this will solve nothing."

Saiph looked down. "Okay."

He supposed that was the best response he could hope for, considering the circumstances. He hesitated for a moment, hovering by the bed. Saiph noticed his immobility, and looked up with a confused frown.

Before he could stop himself, he reached out to brush the boy's flyaways away from his forehead. His hair was not nearly the artless nest that Potter's was, but there was always this little tuft that floated across his forehead. At first the child looked surprised at the gesture— as surprised as Voldemort felt himself— but then his eyes softened and a warm smile grew on his face.

The boy hopped off the bed, expression still soft. "Good night, father." He said, before he left the room.

The Dark Lord watched him go, finding himself full of that curious and unidentifiable emotion once again.

/

"Dementors in Wiltshire? Merlin, what is Fudge thinking?" Mrs. Weasley cried in outrage, slapping the Daily Prophet onto the kitchen table.

"Everyone knows he's gonna get sacked now, Mum, he's probably just gone round the bend." Fred remarked idly, not looking nearly as concerned as his mother, mainly because he was more preoccupied with attempting to sneak a canary cream into one of the pies.

"But to attack a wizard village like that? In broad daylight? What, is he just going to throw Dementors at everyone he doesn't like?" She threw her hands up, before returning to putting dirty breakfast dishes in the sink.

"If it was that git Lucius Malfoy, I say he deserves it." George scoffed, around a mouthful of eggs.

"Right on," Fred agreed. "Why don't they throw in ol' Draco too? That'd be nice of them."

George agreed readily.

Molly did not look nearly as amused. "That's not funny, Fred." She reprimanded.

Fred gasped, with mock affront. "I'm not Fred! Merlin woman, can't you tell your own sons apart?"

She turned around fully at that, pursing her lips as she narrowed her eyes at him dangerously. "Don't even try to play that game with me young man." She warned.

"I'm just saying, Mum," Fred rolled his eyes, dropping the pretense. "You weren't there for this year— the little rat deserves it. Just as rotten as his father, that's for sure."

"And everyone knows he'll get tossed into Azkaban soon enough." Fred added. "Once his lawyers run out of pocket change."

"Doesn't mean he deserves the Dementors' Kiss!" Molly insisted. "That's not a thing to be taken lightly! And neither is siccing Dementors on people, without reasonable cause or due process of the law! Who knows, what if they do it again, to someone else? To  _us_?"

"They wouldn't!" George protested.

"Well, they did do it to Harry," Ron reminded them idly, as he stuffed a spoonful of porridge in his mouth.

The kitchen grew quiet.

Ron shrunk back in the silence; he hadn't meant to cast a shadow of gloom over breakfast, it was an offhand comment. But any mention of Harry these days could draw an entire room as full and bustling as the Weasley family kitchen to a dead stop. As the hours since Harry's disappearance lengthened, the silence grew more and more profound.

He was starting to worry that it wasn't just concern and fear that kept the adults quiet; he was starting to worry that they all knew something they didn't want to tell them. Like something had happened to Harry, something really bad…

"There's been no word on him, then," Fred sighed.

Molly pursed her lips, before shaking her head. "The Order's been out in shifts ever since, but nothing has turned up. All we've got so far is that he went to the neighborhood park and came out some time later, told his Aunt and Uncle he was leaving and disappeared. No one knows where he went."

"I don't understand why he wouldn't at least write to us," Ginny said, fretfully. "Because he would write to us, wouldn't he? If he was okay, if he had just left to get away from his relatives or something."

"But if it was just that, he would have come  _here._ " Ron pointed out.

"Maybe he didn't because the  _Order_  wasn't allowing him to leave his house." Ginny returned, moodily. All their friends had been outraged at the idea, even though the adults had assured them it was a necessary course of action to ensure Harry's safety.

She understood, she supposed. With You-Know-Who _'_ s return made public it was only a matter of time before he began to attack in earnest. The wizarding world was in a right state of panic, fear from the first war fresh on everyone's minds. They'd heard more than enough stories at Grimmauld Place last summer; the unimaginable amount of people who lost their lives to it. So many people in smiling photos, no longer alive to smile ever again. Of course the Order would be scared for Harry's life. She still didn't understand why Harry's relative's house was the safest place for him, though. Surely it wasn't any safer than the Burrow? What was so wrong with Harry staying here?

At least then he wouldn't be miserable and alone.

Molly donned a worried look. "No, no," she assured them all. "It's nothing like that— Harry knows this is for his own safety."

"So, what are you saying? That he didn't leave on his own, he was taken?" Ginny asked, shaken.

Molly looked unwilling to give any kind of answer, biting her lip. She began to furiously return to doing the dishes.

"Mum," Fred protested her silence, his amusement over the canary creams long gone.

"W— Well we don't know for sure," she began, voice wavering. There was a tense pause. "But… yes. The Order believes he was taken."

"Taken." Ron repeated, shaken.

Beside him, Ginny had gone white as a sheet. She was the only person, aside from Harry, who knew what it was like to face Voldemort. It was clear she was recalling the horrors she had faced in her first year.

"B— By Death Eaters?" Fred asked, sucking in a breath.

"We don't know yet." Molly replied, making a valiant attempt to keep her voice steady. "So fretting about it won't help anyone."

There was another long, heavy moment of silence. The water from the tap and the scratching sound dish rags scrubbing coffee cups seemed to drag on forever, as they all looked down.

Molly was the first to pull herself together. "There's no need to worry." She insisted, even as on the kitchen table the paper sat in a heap with the words, ' _SECOND WIZARD WAR_ ' emblazoned as the headline.

In that moment, her words were very difficult to believe it.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> セーラーベイビ by ローマン(roman) is a future funk mix of legendary Toshiki Kadomatsu's Tokyo Tower. This is one of the few mixes that I find to be exceedingly better than the original, not just a more modern palatable version. 
> 
> I had a lot of inspiration for this story recently, don't know why lol. I might even be able to squeeze another update out of it!


	6. the night 都市生活

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi yes I'm back very sorry updates on all stories will be slowww. summer/fall tends to be the busiest season for me irl

 

Voldemort tossed the morning paper onto the table, feeling vaguely satisfied.

 

The Ministry was in panic; the media was only helping spread the fear and terror around the masses; forces were slow to action with so many politicians trying to yell on top of each other. In this regard, everything was going to plan. Lucius’ trial would most likely end in jail by the end of the summer, but Voldemort had every intention of seizing his property as his base of operations, so that was all well and good. His followers were ammassing, and negotiations with the giants and the werewolves were going well.

 

On that front, things were moving forward quite well.

 

On other fronts, however…

 

Voldemort scowled as his marginally good mood melted away at the thought of the problem sleeping in his bed.

 

Voldemort had returned later in the night to retrieve Potter’s body and conduct a few more tests after he had finished up his research. It was a long shot, but it was better than sitting about and doing nothing. Unfortunately he was unprepared to face his future son, wormed underneath the blankets beside Harry and latched on to his prone form like a petulant barnacle. Saiph had whined and complained at the idea of Voldemort taking Harry away from him— apparently the two had been sharing a bed, how disgustingly affectionate— for the night, but Voldemort insisted he wanted to run more tests. It wasn’t untrue, but he also had a secondary motive. Namely, if Harry really did die, he didn’t want the child waking up with a dead body next to him. Not that Voldemort was about to let the stupid boy die, even though it would serve him right for his own stupidity.

 

He didn’t need his bed anyway; the Dark Lord had no intention of sleeping that night, not when he had an entire library to search through. He tried all sorts of alchemies and rituals to no avail. The boy didn’t so much as twitch. As he had expected, Harry was cold to the touch by morning, and his heartbeat was so slow and so faint Voldemort had to use a sound amplification charm to hear it. Under normal circumstances he would assume the body would be dead by mid-morning, but considering the mysterious events leading to this, he could only guess. Mid-morning still sounded reasonable, but who was to say it might be indefinite? There were spells and potions to put someone in a near-death state indefinitely. It wasn’t outside the realm of possibility.

 

The man scowled down into his tea, which had gone cold in the interim of his musings.

 

He had a hunch that Harry was going through some kind of transformation, but what if he was wrong? And even if he did wake up, would he be the same person? Nothing he researched could explain the Master of Death in full.

 

Why must Potter always be the bane of his existence? Even since before he was born Potter was already taking up so much of his life. And from what he knew of their future, he would only continue to do so. He wasn’t quite sure how he felt being inexplicably and irrevocably tied to someone else, even though he could privately admit some of that was his fault. He thought he’d made his peace with it as well; in reality, it was clear he wasn’t going to get over this any time soon.

 

Potter was more than just the boy in the prophecy; more than just a spouse; more than just the bearer of his children. He was his _soul._

 

How was Voldemort supposed to live with that?

 

In all fairness, Nagini was his soul as well. But Nagini was a snake, an animal, limited in speech and comprehension, and ability to get herself into trouble. Having a part of his soul in a human was an entirely separate matter. Potter was more precious to him than any other living thing; he would have to be protected at all costs. Regardless of how Voldemort felt about him (although these days he wasn’t entirely sure how he felt about him) he was now of infinite value to the Dark Lord.

 

He couldn’t imagine how Harry was going to take this.

 

Wait, yes he can.

 

Poorly.

 

So as it turned out, the war might be going well, but his personal life was a mess. He wasn’t even sure _when_ he had even gotten a personal life to begin with. Not too long ago the only thing in his life was the war.

 

The door to the dining room creaked open, drawing him away from his thoughts.

 

“‘Morning,” Saiph croaked out, barely audible in the enormous chamber.

 

He looked about as bad as Voldemort felt right now; tired and weary and unable to find sleep.

 

Saiph paused before he pulled out his seat, staring at him with those stupidly green eyes, filled with far too much emotion. “Is he… is he okay?”

 

“He has not woken.” Voldemort replied in answer; clearly it was not the one the boy was hoping for. Still, better to be vague about it; he had a feeling telling the boy the ominous truth of the matter was a poor idea.

 

Saiph just nodded glumly, dragging his chair out and slumping into it. He made a half-hearted attempt to eat a piece of toast, but barely managed a few bites.

 

“Eat.” Voldemort commanded, waving his hand to levitate a banana and serving of eggs onto his plate. Honestly. How many times was he going to have to remind the boy to eat? Was this a regular occurrence or something? He couldn't imagine how stressful mealtimes must be in the future, if so.

 

Saiph gave him a baleful glance in response. The boy might look like him, but that expression of mulishness was all Harry. It never ceased to amaze him that this tiny, walking, talking human, with thoughts and dreams and an irritating personality, could actually be created from both of them. Saiph was too perfect. Damn it. It was too early for such maudlin thoughts.

 

“I’m not hungry.” Saiph grumbled, pushing his plate away.

 

Voldemort did not have the patience for this right now. “You _will_ eat it.” He replied, in a tone that brokered no room for argument. “I don’t care if you’re not hungry. Not eating won’t solve anything.”

 

“I _can’t_.” Saiph insisted, stubbornly. “I feel sick to my stomach.”

 

Voldemort debated forcing him to do it anyway, before thinking better of it. He really didn’t want to risk Saiph vomiting all over his robes.

 

“Fine.” The Dark Lord said crisply. He snapped his fingers for a house elf. “Get him some tea. Lemon and ginger.”

 

The elf disappeared, and within moments a cup and saucer was in front of the boy.

 

“And you will at least attempt to finish your toast.” Voldemort narrowed his eyes at the boy. Saiph opened his mouth to protest, but Voldemort cut him off, “The last thing I need is you fainting and following your idiotic mother into an unidentified illness.”

 

That shut the boy up quickly. Except now instead of a look of stubborness there was only sadness. Then there was a look of vague interest. Saiph blinked at him. “... You never call him that.”

 

“Call him what?” Voldemort asked, frowning.

 

“My mother,” Saiph clarified, still looking surprised.

 

Voldemort was slightly taken aback. “Well it’s true, is it not?”

 

Saiph shrugged, reaching for his cup. “Well, yeah.” He agreed, as he took a sip of his tea. “But you always just refer to him as Harry.” After a pause; “So do Ceph and Aster, now that I’m thinking about it.”

 

Voldemort had already experienced that for himself in the memories, so he merely nodded along.

 

“Harry doesn’t like it when we call him that,” Saiph continued without prompting, matter-of-fact. “But he still doesn’t let me just call him Harry, which is super annoying.” He digressed, letting out a disgruntled breath.

 

“Is that so?” Voldemort tilted his head.

 

Saiph nodded along. “He doesn’t really like being referred to as your spouse either. I think it might be because Aster made too many ‘ _waifu_ ’ jokes but I think it’s more than that too. Oh, and he _definitely_ doesn’t like being called your horcrux.”

 

Voldemort had no idea what brought on this chatty mood of his, but it was informative enough that he didn’t bother to stop it.

 

“I can imagine someone like him would not appreciate being considered a ‘possession’.” Voldemort agreed drily.

 

Saiph smiled slightly. “Definitely not.”

 

And yet, from the brief glimpse he had of Harry in the future, the boy didn’t seem all that upset over whatever role he had in Voldemort’s life. Or had that changed? From the age gap between Saiph and his elder siblings, they must have grown up during a period of Harry and Voldemort’s relationship that was quite different than the one Saiph had known. But alas, there was no real way to know— well, aside from going through the entire process himself. Voldemort wasn’t entirely sure if he even wanted to do it. He could scarcely imagine the ways it would upend his life. If Saiph’s brief stint here managed to do it so conclusively, how much worse could _four_ more be? He shuddered at the thought.

 

A large smack against the window distracted the both of them, startling Saiph into dropping his toast and causing Voldemort to turn around in his chair.

 

It was a bird, from the look of it. Hard to tell though, since it dropped to the ground a few moments later, leaving behind a crimson red smear on the Malfoy’s immaculate window pane.

 

“What was that?” Saiph asked, worried.

 

Unsurprisingly he bounded out of his chair to research the matter himself, as heedless of danger as always. Voldemort followed after him quickly, wand raised cautiously as he reached out to tug the boy back by the collar.

 

He peered out the window to see the sky had gone dark.

 

The dementors were back in full, and they were not alone. Carrions of all kinds had arrived, dark shadows above circling in slow, ominous rings, blotting out the sun. He looked down at the bushes crowding the walls of the mansion; a black feathered mess lay in a heap of vines. It was difficult to discern from this height, but it appeared to be an unfortunate crow who had mistook the window for open space.

 

Saiph stared out with big emerald eyes, nose pressed to the glass. Voldemort was decidedly more reserved, but equally as attentive.

 

He narrowed his eyes at the dark world outside. It was certainly a sight to see.

 

Prophetic, almost.

 

He imagined if there was a gate to hell, it would look a lot like this. The watery morning light had disappeared completely, leaving a landscape of ashen, tumbling storm clouds in its wake. Lightning brewed in the heavy atmosphere, dementors swooping between the crackles of electricity in a manner that seemed almost enthusiastic. The well-manicured trees and hedges were filled to the brim with scavenger birds, dark feathers and beady eyes peering about as they roosted impatiently. The temperature, which had been lukewarm but a bit muggy when he had arrived for breakfast earlier, had turned frigid and dry.

 

If anything, this was just conclusive confirmation for his resurrection theory. They were all waiting for something. For some _one._

 

More than likely, Harry was dying. He wasn’t entirely sure what set it off, but he could imagine the boy’s recent death may have contributed. From what Voldemort had already learned from Saiph, Harry’s transformation had occurred when he reached full magical adulthood. The exact time that happened varied from person to person, and unfortunately Saiph wasn’t entirely sure when Harry’s had happened in his own timeline. But, considering their similarities to each other, Voldemort wagered it would be near identical to his; seventeen. That was a year from now. Would a year’s difference really change things drastically, though? Perhaps in physical growth, but Harry already seemed to possess a mostly— if not entirely—  developed magical core, so his magic wouldn’t be affected. It should be fine. Although Voldemort couldn’t imagine Harry being enthused with the idea of losing an entire year’s addition to his height.

 

He turned to Saiph. “What do you know of Harry’s transformation?”

 

Saiph pulled his nose away from the glass. It was cold enough to mist over with his breath. “When he became the Master of Death?” Saiph blinked, before frowning thoughtfully. “I don’t really know much about it.” He admitted apologetically, looking ashamed of himself.

 

Voldemort wasn’t entirely surprised. Not for the first time he found himself wishing Saiph was a bit older, or perhaps for one of his older siblings to have accidentally time-traveled instead. Eleven— or twelve, or whatever he was— was an inadequate age to be an accurate source of information. To be sure he was a far better source than Voldemort could have possibly expected; most pre-adolescents were just beginning to flesh out their abstract thinking and higher cognitive abilities, but Saiph already had an impressive level of spatial and abstract reasoning, and appeared to have something of an eidetic memory. But still, eleven was just not old enough to have enough time to gather relevant information. Not to mention it was an age that Voldemort remembered to be particularly vexing when trying to hold mature conversations with adults. They rarely took him seriously, and tended to omit or gloss over things they considered inappropriate for his age.

 

“Anything you can remember is fine.” He said, with a gentle empathy he would have never expected of himself.

 

The boy looked surprised with his candor, but it seemed to work, as he hesitantly opened up some. “Well, it happened a really long time ago. Which is why Harry looks so young— I think he stopped aging whenever it happened, and these days he gets mistaken for Ceph’s little brother!” Saiph confessed with a laugh. “We tried to celebrate it as his ‘death day’ like the ghosts do but Harry said he didn’t want any additional celebrations. Apparently it was a really big deal when it happened, but I’m not really sure why.”

 

“A ‘big deal’ in what way?” Voldemort clarified.

 

“In a time consuming way, I guess.” Saiph scratched his nose, thinking deeply. “And he had to meet a lot of people, and go to a lot of places. I mean, he still does that, but not like _that._ Other people made a big deal of it, really. Apparently it’s been a long time since there’s been a Master of Death.”

 

“A long time indeed.” Voldemort agreed, frowning.

 

And each and every time, it was not a coincidental happening. The Master of Death, The Grand Vizier, The Sorcerer Supreme… these were all titles for a role that no one on this earth seemed entirely certain of. Obviously it was a position of great importance, great power, and great influence, but how it would fit into Earth’s society— and _other_ world’s societies, if Saiph was to be believed—  remained a question unanswered. And considering the current Master of Death was even less informed than he was, he doubted Harry had any idea what he was supposed to be doing.

 

In this, at least, it was not entirely the insensible boy’s fault. Recovering any information on the Master of Death was spotty and unreliable at best. However, the appearance of one always seemed to tie to some great event or another, as if the universe itself had birthed in mortal shell, a cognitive entity that could bend its great energy at will. It was the most reliable theory Voldemort had currently, and it grew more and more likely the more Voldemort heard.

 

To have a sentient form indefinitely would be infeasible, but periodically taking on the form of life would make more sense. A mere mortal creature, no matter its fortifications, would never be able to house or control such vast energies for an infinite amount of time. And even if it was possible, the assimilation of such an anomaly into the complex social constructs and general physiology of lifeforms would prove timely and difficult.

 

Still though, his current internal musings did nothing to answer the current questions; why was it happening now, and what did it mean if it was?

 

Surely something so impressive couldn’t be triggered by an event that, while significant, was probably a regularity in Harry’s life. Apparently the boy thought he had died many times in his life and had simply never realized. _(Which most likely meant that Voldemort had actually killed him, more than once. It was a thought he didn’t know how to feel about.)_ If that was the case, then a tumble down the side of the mansion wasn’t likely to cause this. Or perhaps, it had less to do with event itself and more to do with the timing? Maybe this recent death was just close enough to Harry’s magical maturity to trigger this response.

 

“If my theory is correct, Harry is most likely undergoing that transformation now.” Voldemort announced, turning away from the window.

 

And he was almost entirely certain his hypothesis was indeed correct. The only matter left without true answer was the boy’s actual awakening. Did something have to happen in order for it to occur? And if so, what was it?

 

He doubted he’d find the answer anywhere, but in the meantime now would be a perfect opportunity to prepare for the eventuality.

 

The dark lord stared out into the chaos outside, finding himself seized with a foreign, feverish hunger.

 

His crimson gaze burned alight with a desire he’d never felt before.

 

This sort of power was unimaginable. It was one thing to accept that in theory, and entirely another to watch the sky convulse upon itself in person. It felt as if he was in the eye of the storm, some impossibly powerful natural phenomenon brewing all around him, some apocalyptic influence waiting to splinter apart. He couldn’t imagine what it would be like to control this level of power. A magic that defies both life and death; something older than the universe itself.

 

He pulled himself out of his musings with an irritated tug. Coveting a power he would never have was a pointless endeavor, no matter how alluring it was.

 

At any rate, he had a feeling a display of such astronomical proportions would have far-reaching consequences; the entirety of England could probably see this storm, if not most of Europe. He didn’t know how far it reached— possibly the entire world? Either way it was life-changing, and he had to prepare for all the countless ramifications.

 

He turned away from the window, intent on locking himself in his study to give the matter his full attention.

 

“Father?” Saiph called, before he could get very far. “What does that mean?”

 

He paused. “I am unsure.” As much as it pained him to admit it aloud. “However, if this is truly the case, I have matters to prepare for.”

 

Saiph blinked at him. “...Okay?”

 

He waved a dismissive hand. “I will be in the study. Do not bother me unless it’s important.”

 

Saiph watched his abrupt exit with confliction. In the end he let the man go without fanfare, sighing deeply when the door shut behind him. He slumped against the windowsill, turning slightly to peek out into the gardens below. Between the bright sparkles of colorful peonies, dark splotches had come to roost. Crows.

 

The boy swallowed anxiously at the sight of them. They weren’t an uncommon sight in the future; they, and all creatures of the dead, tended to flock to Harry wherever he went. The steeples of his father’s tower were always lined with the dark blots of carrion birds waiting for their master to come home. He could tell when Harry was actually there by the amount, and whether they were simply roosting or flying about. He’d always felt comforted by their presence, by mere association to Harry they always calmed him. He wasn’t sure how he felt about seeing them now.

 

He rested his forehead against the cool glass, letting out a deep sigh. He closed his eyes. “Please be okay, Harry.”

 

//

 

It had only been a handful of days since Harry was reported missing, but for Ginny it felt like years. It haunted her every waking hour. Sure, her family was equally as worried as she was, but they didn’t _understand._ They didn’t know what it was like to face _that man_. If he could even be called a man. Harry was the only one who understood what she had went through, what it was like to stare into those cold red eyes and realize you were trapped in the jaws of a predator, a mere step away from death.

 

It hurt, knowing there was nothing she could do but sit here and wait, and pray that Harry was just lost, out with a friend, somehow, impossibly okay and unhurt. She didn’t want to fear the worst, but after the events of this year it was all too easy to assume. Harry had been captured by Voldemort. The Order hadn’t done enough to protect him. Ginny was a realist more than anything; she hadn’t been prone to flights of fancy or wishful daydreams since she was a child.

 

It hadn’t happened overnight, but after all these years of knowing her older brother’s best friend, she’d come to realize all those daydreams and flights of fancy were sort of silly. Harry wasn’t going  to be her Prince Charming. Harry barely knew what he was doing most of the time, stumbling through hardships with nothing but determination and bravery. Harry wasn’t actually the kind of person she wanted as a boyfriend at all, really. But he was exactly what she wanted in a friend, which didn’t make this situation any easier.

 

The house was getting stifling.

 

Her mother refused to take anything but an optimistic opinion on the whole matter, and ignored anything they said that might infer otherwise. Ron was getting extremely annoyed by it, and his anger only grew tenfold as their father remained tight-lipped on the happenings at the Order, denying them any information on their missing friend— if there was any information at all. It was the lack of knowing that was really frustrating him, she knew. The rest of her brothers had escaped the house, leaving only her to weather the storm of her parents and brother. Ginny was surprisingly tolerant, and patient, for a Weasley and a Gryffindor, but even she could only take so much.

 

Finally by noon Ginny couldn’t stand it any longer. She told her mother she was going to de-gnome the garden. Voluntarily. It spoke volumes that her mother was too distracted to be incredulous, just nodding along without looking up from her knitting.

 

The garden was hot in the midday sun, and it only took a few seconds in the heat for Ginny to decide there was no way she was actually going to go after any gnomes in this heat. Anyway, it was no fun when there was no one to play gnome-ball with, so the gnomes got to enjoy the garden for yet another day.

 

She gave it up as a lost cause, deciding she may as well walk out to her father’s workshop out back, figuring she could swipe whatever dirty dishes he had lying about. Maybe she might even spend a bit looking over his muggle contraptions, if the weather wasn’t against her; anything to stay out of the house for a little bit longer.

 

It was just as she was rounding a fence with vines that she heard the voices.

 

She couldn’t make out what they were saying, but as she peeked through the vines she could see there were two of them. Two figures out in the wild grass, too far to recognize, although they looked to be her age. They were dressed like they were her age.

 

But what were they doing here? She couldn’t tell whether they were within the wards or just outside of them, but either way it was odd. Were they Order members? She didn’t recognize them, but she wouldn’t delude herself into thinking spying on a couple Order meetings would give her an accurate picture as to who was in it. Her mother would have probably yanked her by the collar and told her to keep quiet, and her better judgement was saying the same, but the Gryffindor in her had no such self-preservation to speak of and her curiosity got the better of her.

 

Ginny stepped out from behind the fence, walking towards them.

 

Upon further inspection they appeared to be a little older than her— closer to Fred and George, or maybe more like Percy, but not nearly as old as Bill— and wearing trendy clothes. They were also both extremely good looking. It was enough to make her nervous.

 

“Um— hello. Are you lost?” She asked in greeting.

 

The boy shot her a winsome smile. Oh, Merlin. There was good looking, and then there was exceptionally handsome. It was something about the windswept, tousled dark hair, or maybe the quirky smile and dimples, or the bright soul-searching eyes, or the defined shape of his jaw—

 

Ginny cut herself off before she could get too distracted by it.

 

“Sort of, yeah. We were wondering if Harry Potter was here?”

 

This immediately put her on edge. She reared back slightly, a deep frown marring her features.

 

“We’re friends of his,” the girl cut in hastily, “and we lost contact with him, kind of out of the blue, so we were wondering if he was here.”

 

Ginny eyed them both warily, wishing she’d brought her wand.

 

“Who are you two?”

 

“I’m Ceph, and this is Aster.” The boy introduced.

 

Ginny’s eyes only narrowed further. “I’ve never heard of either of you.” And considering she went to school with Harry, she was fairly sure she knew the entirety of his social group.

 

The two glance at each other briefly.

 

“We’re— uh, we’re penpals with him. We’re from America, you see, so we don’t see him very often, and only in summer.” Aster explained sheepishly. “We’re um— what do you guys call it? Muggles? Muggleborns? Yeah. Muggleborns. Anyway we go to school in New York.”

 

At this, the scowl on her features melted away slowly as she digested this. She looked them up and down. They were certainly dressed like muggles— very fashionable, too. They were probably like Hermione then, going to a magical school but still living in the muggle world. And she felt a little silly realizing that she hadn’t noticed the accent until now. They were definitely American. Probably not Death Eaters, then.

 

“We read the news.” The blonde girl added, adopting a worried expression. “It sounded really scary. Harry said not to worry about him— but what are we supposed to think when he stops writing us out of the blue? We called his Aunt and Uncle and they said he hasn’t been home in weeks, and he talks about you guys a lot, so we thought we’d have better luck finding him here.”

 

It was enough to curb most of her skepticism, although she still felt a healthy dose of caution as she surveyed both of them. It’s not that their story didn’t make sense… maybe it just made too much sense?

 

Ginny deflated. Either way it didn't matter; she didn't have the information they were looking for. “I’m sorry,” she replied. “He hasn’t been here either.”

 

The two shared another look.

 

Ginny couldn’t help but notice how similar they looked, then. The boy was much taller, and the girl was closer to Ginny’s height, but there was something about their expressions that seemed to match. They both had very striking ice blue eyes, pale and shining in the sun, and similar facial structures. Although upon further inspection, she thought the boy sort of… looked like Harry, somehow.

 

“Are you two siblings?” She ended up asking, curiosity getting the better of her.

 

The blonde grinned at her. “Twins.”

 

“Twins,” Ginny repeated, blinking. That would make sense then. “I hope you two aren’t as much trouble as my older brothers Fred and George— menaces to society, those two.”

 

Aster laughed. “Oh the infamous Fred and George, huh? Harry talks about them— said something about opening up a joke shop?”

 

Ginny nodded. “Yeah, just recently. It’s in Diagon Alley.”

 

“We should stop by,” Ceph suggested to his sister. “I’m beat anyway— and we should probably get a hotel.”

 

“Yeah I could use a nap too, good plan.” Aster groused in agreement.

 

Ginny looked between the two of them. “Did you two… _just_ get here? From America?” She balked. That was so far!

 

“Yeah, we got here at like what, four in the morning?” Aster mused. “We went to Harry’s Aunt and Uncle’s house first, since I didn’t trust them to be telling the truth about his disappearance. They were pissed as hell at the wake up call, but fuck them anyway, total dickwads.”

 

Ceph huffed, rolling his eyes. “Do you have to call them that?”

 

“Well it’s true, isn’t it?” Aster retorted, affronted.

 

Ginny found herself somewhat charmed. She’d never met Americans before. Were they all this shameless and friendly?

 

Not to mention— this was basically the first conversation Ginny had had in person with someone her age since the summer started. After the Ministry fiasco she and Ron were more or less on lockdown, not that any of Ginny’s friends would be allowed out of their houses for long either, given the situation of things. She had been confined and cooped up with her family who grew progressively more agitated the longer Harry was missing, and she was in serious need of good company.

 

But still, she wasn’t entirely sure she could trust them. They were friendly enough, and they didn’t seem like they were lying, but…

 

“How long have you guys known Harry?” She asked, suspiciously.

 

The girl tilted her head in thought. “A really long time,” she decided, tapping her chin. “Man, I don’t know. Eleven, at least.”

 

Ginny weighed them up warily. “Does he tell you a lot about school?”

 

Aster smiled disarmingly. “Sure. You mean like, his little snake adventure with you in a septic system? He told us all about that. Second year, right? I’m assuming your Ginny, anyway. He said you’re the only girl out of all the Weasley’s, and you have red hair, so I’m assuming you’re a Weasley.”

 

She reared back in shock, stunned. That wasn’t the sort of thing people knew about; especially her involvement in it. Or the fact it was a basilisk, or that it was in a ‘septic system’ or rather, the massive pipes beneath Hogwarts. Her chest tightened at the reminder of that event— and the person behind it all. But she refused to think on it now.

 

“...Yes I’m a Weasley… And, I was in First year,” she found herself correcting, breathlessly. “But yes, Harry was in second year.”

 

The girl just shook her head with a lamenting sigh. “Harry gets himself into some business or other every year, doesn’t he? All that mess with his godfather, and then that business of being entered into a deadly tournament involuntarily, and of course what happened this year at the Ministry…” She shrugged. “Honestly I’m not entirely surprised he’s found himself in yet another mess. Even if the school year hasn’t even started.”

 

Ginny just stared at her with wide eyes. Most of that was _not_ public knowledge. Certainly not the matter of meeting Sirius in his third year, nor the fact he was entered involuntarily into the Triwizard Tournament. That was the sort of thing Harry would have to tell her personally.

 

The blonde gave the boy another measured look, prompting him into speaking; “Right, yeah. It’s not so strange to hear Harry’s been up to some death defying stuff, but this time it’s just a bit… more worrying than usual, I guess. You know, what with _you-know-who_ being back and all.”

 

Ginny nodded silently, growing pale at the mention of the dark lord. She looked away, hoping to mask her expression. Fortunately, she didn’t catch the boy’s expression, as he tried very hard not to laugh as he said the name aloud.

 

At any rate, that conversation had assured most of her suspicions, but brought forth many new ones. Namely, who were these people? They clearly knew Harry very well, but Harry had never spoke of having any penpals… or maybe he had just never spoke of them to Ginny. She doubted Ron would remember a fact like that, but maybe Hermione was well aware of them. It was surprising, to say the least, meeting people Harry considered friends that she had never met before.

 

“Did you two… want to come inside?” She asked then, hesitantly. “I don’t know much about the current situation, unfortunately— but maybe my father does. He, uh, has some connections. Maybe if you two ask him, he’ll actually open up some.”

 

The two traded looks again, unsure.

 

“He’s a big fan of muggles.” She added. “So if you don’t mind him picking your brains…”

 

They were quiet for another moment, and Ginny had to wonder if twin telepathy was real. Finally, Aster grinned at her.

 

“Fan of muggles?” She repeated, roguishly. “That’s new.”

 

“He’s a bit… eccentric.” Ginny agreed with a nod.

 

“Well, if it’s alright with your family, a break would be nice.” Ceph smiled at her in appreciation. It made her heart stutter a little bit, in a way it hadn’t done since the first time she had met Harry. “I have a feeling getting a hotel will be a hassle in and of itself.”

 

“Great!” Ginny said, surprised to find she really meant it. Some company would be great right now, and they definitely weren’t Death Eaters. The girl was wearing a flouncy white sleeveless summer dress, and the boy had on a t-shirt. Both their forearms were bare.

 

Anyway, any friend of Harry’s should be a friend of hers. And if the boy just happened to be really good looking, well, her mother couldn’t really blame her, could she?

 

//

 

“By Merlin, this is fascinating!” Arthur Weasley leaned over the table with a look of pure enthrallment. “How does it do that? They are so clear! And they move! Is it truly not magic?”

 

Aster looked at a loss, lowering her phone with a nervous smile. “Uh, well…” She looked to him, as she always did when something required a technical explanation.

 

Cepheus figured she had the right of it though, so he elaborated; “It takes multiple photos in quick succession and strings them together. That’s why it loops, and doesn’t continue on forever, see? Unlike magical photos, which move about as if they had personalities of their own and continued forever.”

 

Aster’s phone turned out to be an ingenious way to entertain the entire family, not to mention an excellent and endless source of conversation that only required minimal lying. Sure, it wouldn’t be invented for a decade or two, but the Weasley’s didn’t know enough about midgardian technology to know that. He paused. _Muggle_ technology. The split of worlds hadn’t occurred yet, so the muggle world had yet to assume the title of Midgar.

 

At any rate, talking about the phone was a much better alternative than talking about any of the other possible subjects that could be brought up; quidditch (which both Aster and Ceph couldn’t care less about), the current state of affairs with _you-know-who_ (that seemed too volatile a subject to voluntarily weather through), the whereabouts of Harry (too raw), or the British Wizarding World in general (that they didn’t know enough about). Not that Cepheus was particularly good at holding conversations anyway. Well, it wasn’t as if he couldn’t be charming when he wanted to be, rather, he rarely wanted to expend the effort to do so. It was easy enough to let his more than qualified sister handle it all.

 

And his twin had proven to be exceptional at it, given the odd circumstances. She idly talked about fashion trends with Aunt Ginny and Grandma Molly for a bit, before switching the conversation to questions on Hogwarts since it was clear Uncle Ron found the topic as riveting as drying paint. And afterwards when Grandpa Arthur arrived at home, she quickly switched gears to midgardian technology— _muggle_ technology— with an emphasis on photography. Aster loved taking photos, mainly of herself, so it was a conversation she had no trouble holding with genuine enthusiasm.

 

Ceph withheld a sigh, looking down at his tepid half-cup of tea, dark and murky in the late afternoon sunshine. Had it been long enough to broach the subject of Harry? But if so, how would he do it? Aster was still prattling on about video technology; it would seem too abrupt to change the subject now.

 

Still, despite the familiarity of it all he didn’t actually want to sit here for very much longer.

 

The Burrow had always inspired a sense of family and comfort in him, namely because for every holiday, event, or even just a random weekend, the entire extended family could be found somewhere in the vast house or surrounding lands; playing quidditch, gnome-ball, or just sitting around the kitchen table. His cousins had always been more like siblings, especially since they had been born close enough in age and spent the majority of their childhoods together. It was so strange to sit here without any of them around. The full brood tended to have the house bursting at the seams, all the aunts and uncles and cousins crowded together. Without even the original Weasley siblings in the house, it felt positively cavernous. He didn’t like it. It made him distinctly uncomfortable. The idea of none of them existing was a little too terrifying to contemplate.

 

And even though he understood intellectually that the reason none of them existed right now was merely a matter of time, he still felt as if he’d stepped into a warped alternate dimension where everything was wrong. Well, that wasn’t entirely an untrue assessment. It was definitely an alternate dimension, but he didn’t know quite yet if it was really ‘wrong’.

 

Either way he didn’t want Sai here longer than he needed to be, and with Harry who knows where currently, the task fell on him. And his sister, of course, who got roped into everything he did willingly or not.

 

Aster had finally switched the topic to music, and he decided now was as good a time as any. They really had started the day exceptionally (and unintentionally) early, and he was starting to fall asleep.

 

“Aster, it’s getting late,” he made a show of checking his watch and re-emphasizing his American accent. “We should probably get going before we can’t find a room at the Cauldron.”

 

“Huh? Oh! You’re right. I was hoping not to stay in Muggle London, and you know how those rooms fill up.” She turned a disarming smile towards Grandma Molly as she grabbed their cups and walked them to the sink.

 

Molly jumped up immediately, rushing over. “Oh darling, you don’t have to do that,” she insisted, gently taking the cups and saucers out of Aster’s hands.

 

“It’s no trouble,” Aster assured, although she let their grandmother take them without fanfare. “Really, you guys have been so kind. Thank you so much for chatting with us.”

 

Even if they hadn’t actually gotten an relevant information out of them. At the very least, they could be certain the Weasley’s had no idea where Harry was, and no inkling of their little brother’s existence.

 

His brother’s travelling and Harry’s disappearance were concerning, to say the least. And two separate problems that Cepheus couldn’t see a clear solution for. It was rare that he couldn’t at least set a decisive path to solving a problem; as it stood, he would have to try a variety of solutions and hope one led in the right direction. But either way, Harry’s disappearance— while worrying— was not actually his problem. They were here to find Sai, and that was it. Whatever madness may or may not befall this particular dimension was no business of his.

 

It was as he was deliberating this that the problem sort of solved itself.

 

“By Merlin, what is going on?”

 

The whole kitchen turned to look at Grandpa Arthur, who was squinting outside the open window, covering his eyes with a hand. The wind was strong enough to pull at his hair and the leaves of the plants on the windowsill, nearly tipping both the plant pots and their grandfather right out the window.

 

Molly gasped. “Ginny, Ron, shut the windows, hurry!”

 

The two scattered to do as they were told, closing up the windows and locking them, just as a gust of wind strong enough to make the house groan wheezed passed the Burrow. The sky had grown dark, rolling clouds spreading across the horizon.

 

“Was there a storm on the weather forecast today?” Molly questioned worriedly, watching the clouds gather with pursed lips.

 

“I didn’t hear anything.” Ginny replied with a shrug.

 

Cepheus stared out the window, the glass shaking slightly with the force of the wind. A flock of birds swooped overhead; crows. They appeared to be heading into the darkest part of the clouds.

 

He shared a worried look with his twin.

 

“We better get going, Aster.” He spoke aloud, keeping his suspicions to himself.

 

“Yes, yes, right you are. Goodness, if it gets any worse…” Molly bustled them both towards the living room, towards the fireplace. “Best not to try to apparate in this weather— why don’t you two use our floo?”

 

“That would be very helpful, thank you.” Cepheus replied, gratefully.

 

Molly waved him off. “Of course. And please don’t hesitate to visit. And if you hear anything about Harry…”

 

It was the first time her cheery demeanor seemed to slip, revealing a look of fear and concern beneath.

 

Cepheus nodded. “We’ll tell you straight away if we hear anything from him.”

 

Molly just pursed her lips, nodding along as she pushed them towards the floo.

 

He felt a little bad lying to his grandmother like this, but if he was being honest, it certainly wasn’t the first time he— or any of his cousins and siblings— had tried to get out of her wrath. And it wasn’t actually _his_ grandmother, he had to remember. For all he knew, he might not even ever be born in this dimension.

 

He swallowed thickly, tossing his floo powder into the fire with more strength than necessary.

 

That was not a good thought to think about right now, so he pushed it aside. “The Leaky Cauldron, Diagon Alley!” He called, and as he disappeared he could hear his sister doing the same.

 

//

 

Aster sighed loudly as she collapsed back onto her bed, blinking at the ceiling.

 

Spending the afternoon with the Weasley’s had been interesting, to say the least. Ceph was lucky she was such a damn good liar, otherwise he would have been floundering around like a fish out of water the whole afternoon long. Cepheus had always been more interested in facts and explanations though, and never had much interest in what he considered the tedious sport of lying and manipulation. Why lie when you could simply tell the truth, which was probably more powerful and cutting than a lie anyway? That was usually when Aster pointed out that lying often times lead to the same conclusion in a more timely manner. Depending on the situation.

 

Now was definitely one of those situations.

 

Sure, telling their family they were the time-traveling children of Harry Potter would probably have worked in getting them to cough up information eventually, not that they even had any, but it would also be far more trouble than it’s worth. At least Ceph could see the value in that, and even though Ginny had interrupted them in the middle of their story collaborating, they managed to pull it off thanks to her inherent talents.

 

She’d pat herself on the back if she wasn’t too tired to even lift up her arm.

 

It hadn’t exactly been informative, but they’d at least gleaned some useful information. Their family didn’t know where Harry was, and had no idea about Saiph being here. Which meant Harry hadn’t been in contact with any of his friends since he disappeared.

 

And whatever was happening to Harry— well, she was fairly sure she knew what it was. Even now the gloom outside had everyone running for shelter, regardless of the lack of rain. The winds and brewing thunder were enough to have anyone with good sense hiding indoors. And if that wasn’t telling enough, they’d heard something about the dementors going out of control when they’d arrived at the Cauldron.

 

Aster rubbed at her eyes. What a mess. She knew it wasn’t _their_ mess to clean up, but all the same it felt so strange to just… not do anything about it.

 

“Who knew time traveling took so much out of you?” She yawned, tilting her head to see what her twin was up to.

 

Unsurprisingly Cepheus was on the bed next to her, one leg propped on the bedspread as he hunched over a book.

 

“Ceph?” She called. “What are you doing?”

 

“How many times do I have to tell you we traveled through dimensions, technically, not time?” He drawled without looking up, flipping a page in his book. “And I’m looking up scrying runes we could use to locate Sai. Assuming he’s not hidden beneath layers of powerful wards… in which case, I would have to use star alignments or ingredients of some kind to augment the search… but then that just leads to the question of which one—

 

It wasn’t that Aster couldn’t follow him, but rather, she didn’t want to. “Oh, enough with that already.” She flapped a hand in his general direction. “It’s late. I’m hungry. We’re both tired don’t even front. Why don’t we just get some food and call it a night, start over tomorrow?”

 

“You’re always hungry.” He retorted, rolling his eyes as he snapped his book shut. “And postponing the problem won’t make it any easier to solve.”

 

“I thoroughly disagree.” She sniffed, sitting upright. “I’m far more productive when I’m not hungry. Or tired. Or physically exhausted from extensive time travel—

 

“ _Dimensional_ travel—

 

“So why don’t we at least just go downstairs and get some food?” She spoke over him, giving him a deeply unimpressed look.

 

Cepheus stared at her, aggrieved. “And what about Harry?”

 

“That’s not going to be solved soon either.” She pointed out, shrugging. “If he really is going through his transformation, there’s no telling where he is, exactly. At the very least we know he’s safe. From death, anyway. And I thought you said he wasn’t our problem?”

 

“If Saiph is with him, he is.” He reminded her, although he knew it was a bit beside the point.

 

She had a good point and he knew it. At present, there was nothing they could do. Running themselves into exhausting like this would only be a hindrance in the long run; even he could see this, despite his intense desire to dive into some rituals _right now._

 

“Fine,” he sighed, throwing the book on the bedside table. “Just let me change out of this.”

 

She could probably go for a change of clothes as well. The thought prompted her to wish for a shower right then, before she dismissed it in favor of her stomach. Cepheus shucked off his shirt, rummaging through their magically-expanded backpack for a spare set of clothes. He was halfway into the thing before he unearthed his usual fanfare of joggers and a fly knit shirt. She almost rolled her eyes, but refrained. They endlessly argued the merits of athleisure as an actual fashion style, to no avail. Aster still thought it was only appropriate as a statement, while Ceph considered it a lifestyle. Starting up the debate now would require more energy than she had. She also thought about yelling at him to go change in the bathroom like a reasonable person, but again, was too tired to bother. They had lived together their entire lives, even before they were born; the sentiment seemed like too much effort right now.

 

He turned to her, shirtless. “I think there’s food downstairs, unless you wanted to venture out in this weather. I don’t know what’ll actually be open, but I guess we could try London proper—

 

He cut himself off as his sister stared at him with wide eyes.

 

He looked down at himself, worried he’d somehow accidentally portaled half of himself off into a separate dimension or something. It wouldn’t be the craziest thing he’d ever done to himself in the name of science.

 

“What?” He seemed normal enough.

 

“I hate to berate my own intelligence, but I’ve never felt this stupid.” His sister lamented, before pointing to his chest.

 

“ _What?_ ” He still didn’t see anything out of the ordinary.

 

“Your portkey necklace!” She exclaimed, jumping to her feet. “Of course! What would be the very first thing Sai would do if he found himself here? We guessed he’d either try to find Harry or father—

 

“And we decided Harry would be the easiest, so he was most likely with him.” Cepheus finished, nodding along. “So?”

 

“So— he was not the easiest.” She took out her own necklace— which she had somehow managed to actually get off her person, despite it being spelled onto them by their father— from her jewelry box. “We have no idea where Harry is, but even if he was still with his Aunt and Uncle he wouldn’t have been the easiest choice.”

 

“But how is father any better? Who knows where he’s holed up right—

 

Cepheus cut himself off, eyes widening. He looked down at the portkey necklace in a new light.

 

Aster smirked. “Exactly. If it works in our dimension, I see no reason why it wouldn’t do exactly what it’s made to do in this dimension, too. He made them himself, after all. And he’s the same person.”

 

Ceph nodded, before scowling. “How the hell did you get it off you?” Even _he_ hadn’t managed to figure it out— not that he’d expended much effort to do so. They were pretty useful, honestly.

 

Aster rolled her eyes. “It’s like you’ve never seen me circumvent the old man before.” She complained. “I broke the enchantment, obviously. I mean, _come on_ , does he really expect me to wear this all the time? What if it doesn’t go with my outfit?” She whined, dead serious.

 

He didn’t even bother to respond to that. “Alright, pack everything up. I guess now’s as good a time as any to use it.”

 

His sister nodded readily, waving a hand to collect all their scattered belongings from the room. _Her_ scattered belongings. How the hell did she manage to get so much crap spread out so quickly? It looked like she brought her entire hair care arsenal, from the amount of bottles floating out of the bathroom.

 

“What if we interrupt him in the middle of something important?” She asked worriedly, as she leaned down to grab the now fully re-packed bag.

 

“We can ask for forgiveness later.” Ceph wasn’t too worried over it. “If Saiph is already there, I can’t imagine how we could make the situation that much worse.”

 

Turns out, they could.

 

//

 

The portkey spat them out in a darkened study, the gloom from the expanse of windows so overpowering it was difficult to see for a moment. It was a handsome room, mulberry wood shelves rising to the ceiling with books filled in every row, old leather chairs with burnished nickel, grand oak furniture. A long table against the wall housed all sorts of crystal decanters full of expensive scotch. Even the air somehow smelled like the Malfoy’s.

 

The Dark Lord was seated behind a desk, looking at first surprised, and then furious at the interruption.

 

In front of him, still on one knee was what she assumed to be Lucius Malfoy— judging by the much younger blonde by the back wall, who looked like a youthful version of Draco. The woman next to him, staring at them both with wide, frightful eyes, must be his mother, then. In fact, they were _all_ staring at them.

 

“Oh, sorry, you appear to be in the middle of something.” She laughed nervously. “Uh... we can just wait outside?”

  


 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Since I mentioned the extended family in this chapter, I figured I should explain the dates. And since there was no war, Fred didn’t die, so he’s got kids of his own(Maisie:2003, William:2009) and Fred II is named Alfie instead. Yeah yeah the dates are probably wrong, but I really wanted them all to be born in triples in the same year. 
> 
> DECEMBER 14, 2020 (current date)
> 
> 1999: Teddy (21)  
> 2000: Ceph, Aster, Victorie (20)  
> 2003: Alfie, Domonique, Maisie (17)  
> 2006: Molly, Rose, Louis (14)  
> 2009: Saiph, Hugo, William (11)  
> 2013: Cassi, Lucy, Roxanne (7)


	7. Midnight Joke / 真夜中のジョーク

Midnight Joke / 真夜中のジョーク

/

The Dark Lord shut that down real quick. The look he gave her was quelling and so familiar she wanted to grin. He looked pissed as hell.

"No. Stay there and be quiet." He commanded in that scary tone that brokered no room for argument.

Aster blinked in surprise. For someone who had no children, he had the dad voice down pat. If anything, that was just confirmation that Saiph was, indeed, here somewhere.

He then directed his attention towards the family of blondes.

"Get up, Lucius, this groveling is disgraceful." The man sneered. "The dementors are none of your concern. As I have stated prior, the matter has nothing to do with you."

"Are you— are you brokering a deal with them, my Lord?" Lucius asked eagerly, although he did not move from the floor.

Clearly the Dark Lord considered the matter closed, expression growing cold with Lucius's continued questioning.

"Please. For my wife and son, I only ask that you don't allow them to harm them." He begged desperately. Aster had never met the man personally, but she had met many a Malfoy, and it must be a pretty desperate situation indeed to have one look so pathetic. Not that the man looked well. His face was considerably pale and his cheeks were gaunt and beginning to hollow, weeks of stress straining on his features.

"Do not concern yourself with this, Lucius." The man said in reply, voice cold. "Now, for the last time you are dismissed. And take your family with you."

Lucius did not spare more than a passing glance on their company, but his family certainly did. As they were herded out the room their curious gazes were all but tangible in their intensity.

She wasn't sure if they had been dismissed because their conversation was truly over, or if their father merely wanted them out of his hair to turn his attention on his (as usual) wayward twins.

From the way their father turned to them, she still couldn't tell. He folded his arms, expression inscrutable as he walked around to lean against his desk. He eyed them up silently, in a way that always made her uncomfortable. They hadn't actually done anything wrong this time either!

For far too long he merely stared at them, until finally a bit of his irritation cracked through his armor of impassiveness and he scowled. "Please tell me this was intentional."

She blinked. "Huh? Oh. Yes. Yes this was intentional. We're looking for our little brother— we were hoping you've seen him?"

If possible, the man looked even more irritated. "Yes, I have. Assuming he's managed to keep himself in one place for more than half an hour, he is somewhere in this wing of the manor."

She let out a long breath, a tension in her shoulders that she hadn't even realized was there releasing at the confirmation of Saiph's existence and good health. It was unusual for their little brother to find himself in any kind of trouble. He was always the sedate and cautious one, and not particularly interested in outrageous adventures, so realizing he was missing and then further that he wasn't even in their dimension anymore had been alarming, to say the least.

"Okay, great. We should probably take him back now." She sighed in relief.

Ceph gave her a long look, one that she returned with confusion.

Their father noticed the display, frowning deeply. "You  _do_  have a way of returning, yes?" He had assumed his two eldest would be competent enough to achieve it, but now he was beginning to wonder. From what little he knew, it also sounded like they tended to jump into things without thinking them through. A terrible Gryffindor habit if he had ever heard of one. Hopefully in his own timeline he'll be able to weed that out of them when they're young.

He paused.

Assuming he was even going to have them.

"Well, yes, but…" The boy began sheepishly.

"But?" He prodded impatiently.

"We're going to have to wait until the summer triangle is in perfect alignment with the earth's ley lines in order to harness enough power to send us back…" He trailed off once he realized he'd more or less lost both of them. "It's going to depend on Astronomy. And you can't really rush the stars."

Aster made an irritated noise. Unlike him, she had never been very good or interested in astrology. His father shared the sentiment.

"How long will that be?" His father enquired, not looking particularly pleased.

Cepheus blinked. "...I'll have to check the night sky." He said, deadpan.

They hadn't really had time to see it yet, so he didn't know where the stars currently were. All he had to judge was the date.

Their father did not look impressed in the least. "So you have no idea, then." He surmised, folding his arms.

Cepheus just shrugged. "If it really comes to it, we can always just wait for Harry."

That piqued their father's interest. "And where is the Master of Death, anyhow? I would have assumed fetching a wayward child from an alternate dimension would be a simple endeavor, if his powers are truly not exaggerated."

"Yeah it would be, if any of us actually knew where he was." Ceph agreed blandly.

Voldemort frowned. "He is missing as well?"

"It's been a few weeks now." His eldest son shrugged. "It's not the longest he's been away, but he usually sends a messenger with an update."

"He also  _never_ works over the holidays if he can help it." Aster added. "So for him to just leave like this, without any prior notice, is really worrying."

Voldemort spared a brief moment of concern, before reminding himself that such sentimentalities were pointless. This didn't concern him. Whatever was happening in this alternate future had nothing to do with him. All he needed to do was get Saiph— and now his two older siblings— out of his hair once and for all. Then everything would be back to normal. He could deal with Potter in whatever way he saw fit after he had dealt with this. They could even go back to being enemies, if he wanted them to. Or he could perhaps imperius the boy or hold him under some kind of enchantment.

He didn't need to marry the boy. He didn't even need to enter an alliance with him. He could find a way to follow his plans to fruition without Potter as a part of them— he'd planned it that way for the majority of his life, why did he need to upend his entire reality over the words of an eleven year-old boy?

But as soon as this thought crossed his head, it drifted away from him like water in his hands.

The idea of returning to his life before Saiph's arrival burned like an open wound on his chest. It should have brought him comfort, but instead it made a cold shiver of what he refused to identify as fear slip down his spine.

It was an inevitable question; what would have happened if Saiph  _hadn't_ shown up? Saiph had uprooted the entirety of his life, but what would his life look like without him?

He reminded himself that such thoughts were a waste of time.

"So there's a very good chance Harry will not be coming to your rescue." Voldemort surmised, darkly. "And you had no backup plan?"

"I have multiple." Cepheus replied. Then he grinned. "Whether they actually  _work…_ "

"You said you had a plan!" Aster gasped, whacking him on the arm.

"I do!" Cepheus protested. "I know how to get home. I know the coordinates of our dimension in the fabric of spacetime, and it's not as if I don't know how to travel through it. We just have to wait for the correct star alignment."

"And when will that be?" Voldemort pressed. By Merlin, if he ended up with these two for  _months_ he's fairly sure he'd lose his mind.

"Like I said, I'd have to check." The dark haired boy repeated, rolling his eyes. Such impudence, honestly. These two had an appalling lack of respect. He refused to find that endearing. "But it's the end of summer, right? It shouldn't be too long."

"How long is that?" Voldemort pressed, growing impatient. "I don't have time to babysit you all  _now,_ let alone for the rest of the year."

"Who said we had to stay with you?" Cepheus raised a brow. "We could of course just go to the Weasley's—

"Absolutely not." The Dark Lord interrupted. "You're staying away from those filthy blood traitors and the damnable Order—

"Filthy blood traitors?" Cepheus looked amused. "You realize you're basically related to them right?"

Voldemort reared back in horror.  _"What?"_

"Well, they're basically Harry's family." His eldest pointed out. "So you know, through marriage…"

He was shocked into silence. Good Merlin, the boy was right. The thought was deeply disturbing. Just another reason to stay as far away from Potter as possible.

"Um, you guys?"

That, and if he and Potter never married, he wouldn't end up with these infuriatingly disrespectful twins.

He turned to his daughter, irritated. "You may  _refer_ to me as—

Aster peered out the window. "Uh, do you think we should help them?"

He frowned at the interruption, turning around to lecture her further, but found her completely engrossed with whatever was going on outside the window. Decidedly displeased but allowing the matter to be dropped for now, he walked over to look over her shoulder.

The Potter/Weasley clan had no lost love for the Malfoy's but all the same it seemed sort of rude to just ignore the display outside. Malfoy Senior appeared to be in a rather desperate situation, what with dementors feeding off of him in long swooping glides. A tall and willowy blonde woman cried out in anguish, tearing away from the safety of the manor doors and sprinting out into the brewing storm to rescue her husband. Soon after that a young blonde boy that Aster could vaguely recognize as a teenage version of Draco Malfoy tore out after his mother, presumably to help.

That would have been great and all if any of them actually knew how to cast a patronus; from the looks of it, they did not. From what Aster could see from her vantage point they appeared to be attempting to drag the comatose form of Lucius back into the house, and in the interim were being fed on themselves.

Usually Aster could just yell at them to knock it off, but Harry was not in command of them yet, so they wouldn't listen to her.

Her father made a dismissive noise, turning away. "Severus can deal with it."

Snape? She thought, dubiously. She wouldn't trust him to do anything but sneer and drawl out insults from a safer position. Although on second thought, he was probably rather fond of the Malfoy's what with being Draco's godfather and all, so he  _might_ just deign to lift a finger in assistance this time. On the subject of people her family had no love for, her former Dark Arts teacher was pretty high on the list.

Not that Snape would ever  _dare_ to so much as cough in her direction. Voldemort seemed to consider Snape in somewhat favorable regard, but Harry had nothing but terrible things to say about his former professor and that was enough to elicit Aster's distaste for the man. And as anyone in Slytherin could tell you, getting on the Queen's bad side was a poor idea indeed. It was vindictive of her and only perpetuating a multi-generational problem, but she absolutely adored getting under Snape's skin when the professor could do nothing in defense. And anyway, it wasn't like she— or any of her siblings— actually  _needed_ a Dark Arts class. As if they didn't get enough of that at home.

"Sure, okay," Aster rolled her eyes. "And when is he going to do that? Sometime after mid-morning tea? They're not going to last much longer."

As if to prove her point, a high-pitched scream shot through the air. Cepheus walked over to give the situation a critical glance; from one look at his expression it was obvious to see he was not enthused.

Cepheus gave a sigh of resignation, pushing past her to throw open the window and jump out. He floated gracefully to the ground, and stalked over towards the Malfoy's. Aster followed suit, if only to get a front seat for all the action.

Voldemort watched the two jump out the window with nothing short of pure fury. He had assumed his two eldest would be both the easiest and the hardest of his future children to deal with, and he was right. They had all of his cunning and intellect and all of Potter's propensity for stubbornness and appalling lack of self-preservation. He may as well just go after them though; gallivanting into a horde of dementors wasn't a daunting prospect now that he could easily protect himself.

/

Severus took one look outside the window, and prepared for the worst.

He could only imagine what sort of dark ritual the Dark Lord was attempting to perform, to cause such a catastrophic force of nature. For one brief, terrifying moment, he'd suspected the man was raising another army of inferi. He could recall with a chilling clarity the last army of undead the man had risen; and just how many dead had to be felled by his hand in order to make them. It was the birds that gave him the sinking suspicion; so many carrion birds circling above could only mean a great amount of death was near.

But then the dementors flocked above Malfoy Manor's skies, and he realized whatever was going on was far worse.

Lucius was not in a right state of mind— that was the only excuse Severus could conjure for his absurd behavior.

He had been counseling the family to remain calm despite the situation outside, reminding them that panic would not help them face what was to come. They all knew Lucius' arrest was impending; it had been a terrible weight upon them all summer long, as even the best lawyers money could buy could only buy Lucius so much time. He'd watched the fear eat away at all of them; Lucius lashing out against his family; Narcissa crumpling in on herself, cold and unyielding; and young Draco, desperate to prove himself, to help his family. Lucius had grown positively hysteric at the sight of the Dementors, even growing as bold as to request an audience with their Lord— even when the man had explicitly stated he was not to be bothered.

Lucius had been cursed for his impudence, unsurprisingly, but that only made his state of mind deteriorate further.

He'd grown restless, hiding indoors behind the safety of the manor walls. He was pacing furiously, muttering under his breath, his hands still shaking from the  _cruciatus_ Lord Voldemort had held him under earlier. Severus was on the chaise with Narcissa, administering a calming draught. Narcissa and Draco did not often come in contact with their Lord; to see his evil and violence in person must have been a difficult endeavor for them. Draco, for his part, had refused the draught despite his obvious terror. He had grown quiet after the family had left the Dark Lord's office and returned to Severus, pale and withdrawn as he stared sightlessly at the ground.

There was a loud crash of thunder from above, and that was apparently all it took to finally set Lucius off.

He burst through the doors, sprinting out into the open yard down the veranda stairs. Narcissa shrieked in horror, leaping off the chair before Severus could manage to stop her. She tore after her husband, screaming at him to stop. Lucius could not hear her though; he was shouting at the dementors, yelling at them to spare his family. He fell to his knees, begging them to just taking him instead, the fool. It was no surprise the dementors swooped upon him immediately, and then to Narcissa when she rushed to his side. Neither of them knew how to cast a Patronus, as far as Severus knew.

Draco had sprung to his feet as well, but not as quickly as his mother. Severus grabbed him by the arm, forcefully tugging him back down. "Stay. Here." He commanded.

"No!" Draco struggled in his grip. "I have to— I have to save them!"

And what exactly did the foolish boy think he would accomplish? Severus was not used to such brainlessness— at least, not from this family. Usually the Malfoy's were a very disciplined family, but it was clear that recent events had unspooled their carefully crafted restraint and left them with nothing but fear and madness.

" _I_ will save them!" Severus retorted in response. " _You_ must stay here! Do you think the dementors will spare you? Do not go out there!"

" _Mother!"_ Draco shouted, not hearing a word of his logic. Severus cursed under his breath. He couldn't cast a patronus in this state; the spell required a great deal of concentration and control, and he had none of that to spare currently.

Draco tore out of his grip. Severus let him go, deciding it would be a better use of his time to sort through his thoughts and get himself into the right frame of mind for a patronus. It was a difficult spell to begin with, but under dire circumstances it was far worse. He tried to focus his mind, direct his thoughts towards his feelings of Lily— but it was a fruitless endeavor, as he listened to dementors feed on the family. Narcissa's helpless cries; Lucius's ragged breath as dementors swarmed around them, feeding on every pass.

The two were attempting to drag the man back inside. This was an idea doomed to fail, as neither of them could defend themselves so it was only a matter of time before they ended up in the same state as Lucius.

Severus gritted his teeth, marching outside. He just had to hope that pure determination and willpower would be enough to cast it. Lily wouldn't want this for them anyway, she would want to help—

" _Expecto Patronum!"_

Severus faltered midstep.

A burst of light erupted into the open air. A creature shot across the lawns like a shooting star, so bright and brilliant he couldn't make out its shape.

He turned towards its origin. It was a girl. His heart felt as if it had stopped in his throat. No. It couldn't be…

She walked closer, a tall boy with messy black hair by her side. He shook the image away. She looked nothing like Lily; the hair and coloring were completely wrong. It must have just been a trick of the eye. Or maybe his own wishful thinking.

The blinding light curled around the family, shooting upwards to herd the dementors away. Now that he could get a good look at it, it appeared to be a water dragon of some kind. It's elongated body shot into the air like a curling ribbon, pushing the dementors back.

Severus quickly made his way to the Malfoy's, briskly kneeling beside Lucius as he took out a pepper-up potion from beneath his cloak.

"What possessed you to do something so stupid?" He muttered, a question he wanted to direct towards all of them.

"I couldn't just leave him there," Narcissa gasped out; her immaculate hairstyle had come apart at the seams, giving her a frantic, crazed look that would have been better suited on her sister.

"It didn't occur to any of you that  _none_ of you know the Patronus charm?" He retorted severely, as he tipped the potion into Lucius's mouth. The man barely had any presence of mind to swallow.

Draco, at least, had the good decency to look ashamed.

"— think they're okay?"

Severus looked up at the sound of the foreign voice. The unknown boy was speaking, although it was difficult to hear from this distance.

The girl by his side just rolled her eyes and crossed her arms. "Whatever," she said, without an ounce of concern. "Let Snape handle them."

Severus frowned deeply. She spoke as if she knew him, and yet he'd never seen her in his life. He'd never seen either of them, actually. Who were they? And why were they here? He was fairly sure he knew every one of the Dark Lord's followers, by sight if not by name. He knew for sure that he'd never met either of them.

At his side, Draco sucked in a breath. "It's those two," he whispered, eyes wide.

"Who are they?" Severus turned to him, as he pulled out another pepper-up potion and handed it to Narcissa. Unfortunately, he did not carry chocolate with him as he did potions, so this would have to do for now.

"They— they appeared in the Dark Lord's office." Draco explained, as his mother gratefully downed the entire potion. "Earlier, I mean. But I don't know who they are."

Severus found himself even more curious at that.

As if on cue, the man himself appeared from behind the two, looking enraged. That was never a good sign.

Whatever vague sense of relief seeing his eldest two had given him died a still death as they ignored him and leapt out the window. The Dark Lord should have known his eldest two would be the biggest headaches of them all; Saiph, at least, appeared to at least  _try_ to follow his orders. He was never very good at it, but he didn't seem to have a devious bone in his body. It only took one look at Asterope's wholly unapologetic grin to realize shewas the exact opposite. Sly, manipulative, and cunning beyond belief, she was probably never honest unless it suited her purposes. How painfully familiar.

He strode towards them with purpose, casting a brief, unmoved glance towards the Malfoy's. He dismissed them within seconds, returning his attention to the more pressing matter at hand.

The Dark Lord resisted a sigh, but it was a near thing. A sense of resignation overwhelmed him; he was  _not_ looking forward to having the twins around for the foreseeable future.

"Do  _any_ of you know how to follow orders?" The Dark Lord asked, incensed.

The veranda doors opened again, this time revealing the small form of his eleven year-old son.

"No," he answered the question for himself, wondering why he tempted fate like that. "Clearly not."

"Ceph!" Saiph cried, running towards them. He didn't spare a glance towards the Malfoy's, jumping into his brother's arms.

Cepheus laughed, swinging them around in circles. Aster watched on fondly. Even Voldemort had to admit there was something rather sweet about the situation; sweet enough to make his teeth hurt, actually. He scowled and looked away.

Meanwhile, Severus watched the display with nothing short of absolute disbelief. He couldn't quite hear what the Dark Lord said to them, but neither of them looked scared, which was the usual expression people wore when the Dark Lord turned his full attention on them. They didn't look fearful in the least, actually. Not even the little boy that had appeared out of nowhere.

He turned to Draco. "Do you know these children?"

Draco stared with wide eyes, rapidly shaking his head. He turned to Narcissa, only to find her just as bewildered.

They were clearly not guests of the Malfoy's, which could only mean they were guests of Lord Voldemort. And yet that seemed wholly unbelievable.

The two older children— Severus would estimate them to be seventh years or older, but wouldn't think they were actually adults— were wearing muggle clothes. Muggle clothes! They didn't even bother with the pretense of throwing on a robe or wearing something less flashy. Lord Voldemort had killed for less. And yet, they remained standing, unharmed and in relatively good spirits. That too was concerning. Aside from Bellatrix, who was positively deranged, no one was ever particularly happy to be in the Dark Lord's presence. They certainly weren't comfortable enough to laugh and smile, and twirl each other around. The Dark Lord wasn't even cursing them— he appeared irritated, but that was mild for the man.

Severus watched the scene carefully, filing away every small detail to review later, when he had more time to sort things out. He had no idea how this would change the fate of himself and those around him, but he knew this did not bode well for the Order. Lord Voldemort was a lot of things; unpredictable was not one of them. The man's volatility, obsession with himself and propensity for anger made him easy enough to read and predict. To see him now, though…

And then, as if to make matters even worse, yet another figure appeared at the entrance to the manor.

He knew who it was, of course. After hating that face for almost six years now, how could he not? And yet, he couldn't manage to connect the boy in front of him to the power that seemed to rip through the air at his entrance.

" _P— Potter?"_  Draco all but shrieked. "What is  _he_ doing here?"

Severus didn't bother to respond, rendered speechless. This sort of aura— his black gaze darted towards the Dark Lord, who was observing Potter with an inscrutable expression. This power was somehow even more salient than his Lord's; a feat not even Dumbledore had ever managed.

/

Harry awoke with tears in his eyes.

As he blinked back into wakefulness, the memories threatened to drift off in the sunlight, and with a jolt he made a conscious effort to tug them back.

He couldn't forget something like that.

He  _couldn't._

He closed his eyes, tears burning at his lashes as his heart beat a frantic tattoo in his chest. It felt as if he was still there— still walking into the Forest of Death, his breath caught in his throat as he felt like his ribcage might splinter open from all the fear inside of himself. Walking to his death, knowing he was about to die— knowing he would have to leave his friends to the horrors of this world.

Scenes flooded past him; the wards around Hogwarts shattering; the magnificent Quidditch pitch crumpling in a sea of fire— the fire, oh Merlin the fire. The heat of it still seemed to fan over his face, as he listened to Crabbe's screams as the fiendfyre devoured him, Malfoy's heaving sobs against him as they desperately climbed higher and higher into the air. Lavender Brown's limp body strewn across the broken floor, Greyback tearing into her; Percy's hysterical shouts as he and Hermione and Ron all frantically try to get him to let go of Fred. Fred, Lupin and Tonks laid out amongst the dead, empty eyes and unseeing.

He bolted upright and over the bed, retching and choking. There was nothing but bile to spit up, burning all the way up his throat.

Harry laid there for a long moment, feeling like his lungs might give out on him as his eyes stung with tears. From the memories or the burn of bile, he didn't know.

When he finally had enough presence of mind to sit upright, the first thing he noticed were strange, crimson droplets falling from the sky.

He realizes they're not falling from the sky at all, but from atop his head.

When he looks down at himself, he realizes he's completely naked, and covered in rose petals.

For a very long moment, he doesn't know what is going on, where he is, or even  _who_ he is.

Then it all comes rushing back to him.

"...A dream?" He whispered to himself, before fiercely shaking his head. More petals fell down his shoulders. No, there was no way that could have been a dream— that was not a simple figment of his imagination. It was too vivid, too  _real._ He could still feel the heat of fiendfyre on his palms; the guilt overbearing and oppressive on his shoulders as he looked at the dead and the wounded in the Great Hall.

It hadn't been a dream.

But then… what  _was_ it?

It was getting more and more difficult to remember; he had to squeeze his eyes shut and make a valiant effort to drag the memories back to him.

Dumbledore being struck by the killing curse; the locket possessing him; Hedwig falling out of the sky; the cave by the sea; the clear and sharp  _pop_ as prophecy orbs broke around him as he sprinted for his life. That last one was familiar. That had happened to him, here, in this timeline.

The prophecy, right. Sirius falling through the veil. His miserable summer at the Dursley's.

And then…

" _And what do I call you?"_

" _You call me Saiph."_

Harry released a shaky breath, eyes fluttering open.

Saiph.

His beaming smile, the shyness in his sparkling eyes when he's hesitant to say something, that little wisp of hair that forever wants to stick straight up no matter how many times Harry smooths it down.

He focused on that, because he couldn't bear to focus on anything else. Memories of the dead threatened to overwhelm him, and he found himself scrambling out of the bed, tripping over the sheets in his haste. He spared a moment to grab the sheet and tie it around him, before tearing out of the room in search of the boy. He  _needed_ to see Saiph right now— he needed to know  _this_ was real. That he wasn't still standing in that clearing in the Forest of Death, waiting for his own death to pass after seeing so many of his cherished friends and family die around him. It would have been a blessing, he remembered thinking, if this nightmare would finally end.

He's not sure how he knew where to go, but he found himself taking turn after turn down stately marble halls, the floor cold and unforgiving against his bare feet.

He doesn't even realize it but at some point he'd started sprinting at full speed, winded and out of breath, crossing through the large ballroom that led to the tall glass doors of the veranda.

He threw them out with a loud and sudden  _bang,_ skidding to a halt.

The scene before him was so perplexing his feet seemed rooted to the spot.

The sky hung low and overbearing, clouds as dark as soot stewing violently with lightning. The electricity was so heavy in the air it made all the hairs on the back of his neck rise up, and his skin tingle. Between the streaks of lightning he could see the wispy black forms of Dementors, their cloaks billowing in the wind. Carrion birds banked in ominous circles, cawing intermittently.

And beneath that all was…

"Sai," he breathed, his knees threatening to give out on him.

Saiph was there, looking just as he remembered, with the Dark Lord standing beside him. The Dark Lord with his handsome face and tall form, still pale but not the skull-white that he remembered. He could have collapsed then and there out of relief.

Was it really just a dream, then?

 _No…_ A voice whispered, in his mind. It wasn't just a dream. It was a  _warning._

/

"Harry!" Saiph cried, voice high with relief.

Voldemort is stunned to see the boy— not only because he was supposed to be comatose in his bedroom, but also because of his appearance.

It seemed oddly prophetic, given the moment. Like a god descending out of the sky, a perfect form wrapped in white silks, crowned with crimson and gold. All of this was playing out like some kind of great Greek odyssey; the storms and creatures of the dead, and the Master of Death himself, all but glowing in the darkness. But it was difficult to get caught up in the mysticism when everything still felt so surreal— too disjointed to be a Homer worthy epic, too strange to be real life.

In reality, Harry appeared to be wearing a commandeered bedsheet, with the rose and dandelion petals from Voldemort's last attempted ritual falling out of his hair and onto his bare shoulders. All the same, in that moment it was so easy to see Harry for what he truly is; something beyond human comprehension.

Harry hesitated at the mouth of the doorway, before he was all but sprinting towards them, heedless of everything else around them. He didn't seem to have eyes for any of it; not the Malfoy's, stunned and bewildered, or Snape, equally as shocked, or even the two new travelers or the storm above them. No. Somehow, improbably, Harry only seemed to have eyes for  _him._

He ducked down to place a quick kiss to Saiph's forehead.

And then he turned to Voldemort and threw his arms around him.

Voldemort was so shocked he had no presence of mind to shove him away. So the Dark Lord merely stood there, still as stone, as Harry all but curled against him. After a beat he realized the boy was shaking profusely, and his breath was coming out in the short, uneven heaves that denoted the onslaught of hyperventilating.

He has absolutely no idea why the boy was acting this way, and he was so floored he just let Harry sob against him for about half a minute, before the boy finally pulled away from him and seemed to remember himself.

"Sorry," he said, lamely, without meeting Voldemort's gaze.

Instead he turned to Saiph, who stared up at him with evident worry. "Harry," he reached for the boy-turned-god, grabbing a hold of the fabric haphazardly tied around him. "Are you okay?"

"F— Fine." Harry replied, voice shaky and small, as he squeezed Saiph against him.

Unlike Voldemort, Saiph didn't seem bothered by the display of affection whatsoever. Actually,he seemed to enjoy it, leaning into Harry's touch. Then he frowned deeply. "You don't  _look_ okay. What happened to you?"

"I— I have no idea, but I— " Harry cut himself off, an expression of pure fear crossing over his face. "Well, it's over, at any rate."

"Actually, it's not quite over." A voice cut in from his left.

Harry turned, blinking blankly. There were two figures standing behind Saiph that he'd sort of just overlooked in his need to make sure Voldemort and Saiph were real. Their identities were obvious at first sight; a tall boy with messy black hair, a girl with cornsilk hair and pale, crystalline eyes.

"You two…" He started, stunned. He knew who they were, of course. But when had they gotten here?

The girl waved. The boy just looked exasperated at her. He pointed above them.

Harry blinked, looking up. The dementors had drifted out of the clouds, their faceless heads all staring directly at him.

"You need to tell them to leave." Cepheus commented idly. "Unless you want them to steal all the souls of the Malfoy family."

Aster snorted. "Worse things have happened."

Harry whirled back around, taken by surprise to see the Malfoy family off to the side. Draco somehow managed to look paler than usual. Lucius was still on the ground, with his wife supporting his shoulders as he attempted to get up. He looked a right mess— actually, they all sort of did. Even Draco, whom Harry had seen just a few months ago. He'd lost weight in the time since, face pale and gaunt. He was even more surprised to see his potions professor hovering by the blonde family. What was  _he_ doing here? Surprisingly he didn't seem all that interested in assisting the Malfoy's— actually, his gaze was directed squarely at Harry.

Harry turned away quickly, attention moving to the sky.

"How am I supposed to tell them to leave?" Harry frowned. "It's not as if they've ever listened to me before."

"They'll listen to you now," Cepheus replied, with complete assurity. "Try it."

Harry took a breath. Then he spoke.

" _Leave us."_

His eyes widened in surprise as he clamped both hands over his mouth. He'd never heard such strange words before. It barely even sounded like his own voice!

Whatever had happened, it certainly worked. The dementors pulled back, the entire flock halting in unison. After a moment they retreated farther into the sky, and then turned back into the clouds. Harry watched them go with no small amount of disbelief, and a hell of a lot of confusion. He had no idea what he just said. Or even what really happened.

He turned to Cepheus.  _"What did I say?"_ He gasped again, hands coming back to his mouth in shock.

Cepheus just looked amused. "You're speaking the Tongue of the Dead. Can't you tell?"

Saiph peered up at him curiously. "If he can speak it— then, is he…?"

"The Master of Death?" Cepheus filled in, shrugging. "I'd assume so."

" _How do I stop this, then?"_ He asked in alarm. Oh great, first parseltongue, now this. He supposed both were useful in their own way, but couldn't they be like normal languages? It was always such a struggle to figure out how to switch back and forth!

"Take a deep breath, and try to calm down." His eldest suggested calmly. Was he always this unflappable? Harry wondered where the hell he got that level of tranquility, considering his parents were Harry and Voldemort, possibly the two most explosive people on the planet.

Harry did his best to follow his advice; it was fairly standard, but surprisingly effective in this situation. Harry hadn't quite realized how… hysterical he'd been until he found himself making a concerted effort to calm down. Ever since he'd woken up he'd felt erratic and volatile, fear clotting his mind into some kind of single-minded frenzy to find Saiph. He just… he'd  _needed_ the assurance that what he'd seen— what he'd lived through— hadn't been real.

The boy let out another long, shaky breath, eyes closed, his frantic heart slowly returning to normal.

When he opened them, he felt a bit more centered. "What happened?"

This, he directed towards the Dark Lord.

The man scowled deeply. "Where shall I even begin?" He drawled, annoyed, turning a severe expression towards Aster and Ceph.

Aster laughed nervously. "Well, we may have  _accidentally_ dropped in unexpectedly…"

Harry smiled slightly. "It's always an accident with you two, isn't it?"

His comment made Voldemort scowl deeper; the twins laughed nervously.

"It's a bit of a long story…" Aster hedged, sheepishly.

"Perhaps we should take this conversation inside." Voldemort interrupted coolly, eying the sky, and then their unwanted company some paces away. Then he turned back to his family, one brow raised. "And let Harry change into something more presentable?"

Harry blinked, then looked down at himself.

Then he flushed a bright crimson.

Asterope laughed, grabbing him by the shoulder and steering him towards the veranda. "Excellent idea, as always." She agreed, as she led a mortified Harry up the stairs.

Harry's blush only grew worse as they passed by what he was fairly sure were the Malfoy's and the dreaded bat of the dungeons. Harry looked down at himself. And he wasn't wearing  _anything._ Great. He bundled the sheets around him a little tighter, causing a flurry of petals to fall out of the folds.

On the subject— why  _was_ he covered in flower petals? To that end, why had he awoken naked? He remembered falling asleep on a couch somewhere, with a vague intention of finding Voldemort. Next thing he knew he was waking up from what was perhaps the worst nightmare of his life  _(was it truly just a dream, though?)_ in a bedroom he'd never seen before, completely naked and covered in rose petals. He discreetly sniffed himself. And some kind of oil, he was fairly sure. And of course Malfoy and Snape of all fucking people had to see him like this. He couldn't even begin to imagine what kind of ammunition he'd just given Malfoy. The boy was going to never let him live this down. That was to say nothing of Snape; he could just imagine the many ways the man would insult him during class.

Good Merlin, he was never going to live this down, was he?

"That… that was Potter, wasn't it?"

Severus finally managed to herd the family back into the house, getting them situated in a sitting room as far away from the Dark Lord's wing as possible. He'd immediately summoned an elf for chocolate, distributing it among the three. He had no idea when he ended up being nursemaid for the Malfoy family, but this was not what he had had in mind for his blessed last few days before he had to return to that cesspool of children called a school.

None of this was what he had in mind, actually.

He had certainly not expected to see Potter yesterday, in the same way he had been unprepared to see him  _now._

Wearing a  _bed sheet._

He had a terrible, sickening suspicion about that in his head. One he was valiantly trying not to think about. Especially after seeing the way Potter had ran to the Dark Lord, and threw his arms around the man. That had been a trip. His Lord had looked positively horrified. How amusing, that something as simple as a hug could scare the most terrifying wizard alive.

"Yes, it was." He answered Draco, after a moment of collecting himself.

If possible, Draco grew paler. "But, that couldn't have been." He protested, weakly. "Potter doesn't— he can't— " The young Malfoy struggled for a long moment. "He… he felt like the  _Dark Lord…_ "

Severus sighed deeply. "Yes, he did."

That was perhaps the most disconcerting part of the entire ordeal. Potter's appearance felt very similar to the Dark Lord's— the way the man's magic swept clear through a room, powerful enough to almost knock a wizard clear off his feet if he wasn't careful. He didn't remember Potter having such an impressive aura before— in the same way he didn't remember the boy controlling dementors, either. This situation appeared to grow worse and worse as time went on. What was he supposed to tell Dumbledore.  _Could_ he even tell Dumbledore? To tell him at this point would be to forfeit his position as a spy and quite possibly his life. The Dark Lord's punishment for betrayal is death.

"And he spoke to the dementors," Draco continued, looking half-crazed. "He  _spoke_  their language!" The boy added, as if Severus hadn't been there himself to witness it.

Severus withheld a sigh.

Matters were complicated enough as it is. He didn't need to have to attend to his frantic godson and his family on top of that. He had to figure out what was going on, and he had to come up with a plan. Potter being here changed everything. Potter appearing to be here  _willingly_ was even worse.

"Severus," Narcissa's voice was soft and seemed to float in the air between them. He looked up. She still looked worse for wear, but color had returned to her face. She had a blanket around her shoulders, despite the return of the warm summer weather. "Do you know what's going on?"

"I do not," he replied, carefully.

"The Dark Lord trusts you." Lucius rasped— the first thing he'd said after his ordeal. Somehow, despite the hoarseness of his voice he managed to make it sound accusing.

"To an extent, yes." The potions master replied coolly. "He did  _not_  trust me with the information that Potter was in your house. And he has not found it fit to inform me of his other guests, either."

Narcissa bit her lip, concerned. "But, perhaps, if you asked—

"I will not ask." He cut in, voice gentle but unyielding. "I will not incur the Dark Lord's wrath so stupidly."

Her eyes grew big with worry. "Then what are we going to do?"

Severus was wondering the same thing.

"We wait." He answered, grimly.

/

Harry doesn't feel any different, is the thing.

He put a hand on his chest, fingers sliding over his own heartbeat. His heart was still beating. So how could he be dead?

"You're not dead, exactly," Cepheus explained after he voiced the question aloud, as he happily reached for a plate of macarons on the table between them. Harry was starting to notice he had a certain fondness for them, especially the vanilla ones. It was kind of adorable. "You're just no longer living."

Harry frowned, tugging the blasted bed sheet around him a bit tighter. He'd asked Saiph to go to his room and fetch him some spare clothes, but the child adamantly refused to leave his side. Harry felt so guilty about putting the boy through this that he didn't bother to argue. So here he was, in a bedsheet still dotted with rose petals, in the Dark Lord's private sitting room with his future children in tow. The Dark Lord had disappeared into his bedroom across the room, apparently to find Harry clothes from his own wardrobe.

Harry didn't know how he felt about wearing the Dark Lord's clothing. But anything was better than wearing the man's bed sheets.

He felt as if his face would forever be stained red at this point. He couldn't even look in that direction, after he'd recognized it as the bedroom he'd woken up in. He had been in the man's bed.  _Naked._ And covered in rose petals. If he wasn't already dead, than this would have surely killed him.

He forcefully shoved those thoughts away, turning back to the subject at hand.

"I'm afraid I don't follow." Harry confessed, nervously reaching for his tea.

It was surprisingly reassuring, having Cepheus and Asterope here. Meeting them in person really brought home the fact that they were actually  _older_ than him right now. They both seemed far more mature than him; it was a bit strange but also really relieving. They seemed dependable. And knowledgeable. Way more knowledgeable than Harry, anyway.

Cepheus smiled reassuringly. It was really strange, seeing his own smile on someone else's face. "Yeah, it's complicated. You're not dead, but you're not alive, either. Not in the sense that we think of things. It's a bit silly, really, that we humans tend to think of things in such rudimentary, unyielding states when such black and white differences are rare in the natural world—

Aster cleared her throat from beside her brother, giving him a narrow look.

Cepheus laughed. "Right, yes. Sorry. When you think of the universe, what do you think of?"

Harry blinked, taken aback by the question. "I'm not sure. Um, stars? The sun? Space?"

Cepheus nodded. "Would you consider them dead?"

Harry's brow furrowed. "No?"

"But you wouldn't really call them alive, either right?"

Harry's brow furrowed further, as he stared down at the carpet with intensity. He'd never thought of it that way. What did it mean to be alive? What  _was_ life? How could that intangible existence possibly be comprehensible?

"Oh now look, you've given him an existential crisis." Aster complained, stealing the last of the macarons off the plate between them, to Ceph's horror.

By his side, Saiph snuggled up next to him, burrowing into his side. "Don't think on it too hard." He advised wisely, as he peered up at Harry. "Whenever Ceph tries to tell me these kinds of things I end up with a big headache, feeling really sad."

Ceph harrumphed, rolling his eyes. "See if I ever help you with your homework again…"

Sai just grinned widely at him. Harry watched them with warm eyes. That was another good thing about having the twins here; Saiph was just so  _happy._ It made Harry happy just watching him.

"Anyway, what Ceph is trying to say is that your existence can no longer be measured by mortal standards. In the same way we don't think of, let's say, electricity, magnetism, or stars by such measurements." Aster summarized— fairly effectively, at that.

Harry blinked. "So… I'm like, a star? Or a sun?"

"You are the physical form of one of the fundamental energies of the universe." Cepheus answered. As if that wasn't a daunting prospect.

"I really don't feel any different." Harry looked down at himself. He didn't really look any different, either. Then again, he hadn't quite managed to find a mirror yet.

"You're not a different person, or anything." Aster grinned. "Don't worry, you're not anything special. You're just, you know, basically the closest thing in this universe to god."

Ceph and Sai laughed. Harry didn't find it nearly as funny.

"I don't  _feel_ like that, though." Harry frowned. "I just— you guys keep talking about all these things I do that seem so impossible! Like, you said I split the world in two?"

"That's a very rudimentary way of saying it, but yes." His eldest nodded.

Harry looked down at his own hands. Human skin, flesh and bone. "I have no idea how I even did all that." He said, voice low.

It was so hard to comprehend. How could the person they speak of possibly be him?

The three grew quiet as they watched him struggle with this new information, worry evident on their faces.

The Dark Lord emerged from the bedroom, carrying a pair of trousers, a plain button down shirt and a robe. He seemed to have made an effort to shrink them accordingly, but it still looked like it would swallow Harry whole. "Potter," he called, causing Harry to look up.

Harry didn't even protest as he took the clothing from the man and walked through the bedroom and into the bathroom. He felt as if he should be embarrassed as he used the man's private bathroom to change into the man's clothes, after spending the night naked in his bed, but even embarrassment was too difficult to muster right now. He felt a little numb. More than that though, he felt scared. Too small for his own destiny.

He was Harry. Just Harry. Not this quasi god who could rip apart worlds with his fingertips and call off armies of dementors with his voice alone. Harry stared at his reflection in the dressing room that led to the actual washroom, simply assessing his own face. His scar was as prominent as always, especially with the way the wind from earlier had caused his unruly curls to stick up more than usual. He'd lost his glasses in the interim of falling asleep on the couch and waking up in Voldemort's bed, but it hadn't hindered his vision at all. His eyes were perhaps the most telling difference, he thought. They were still green, but the hue was all wrong. They were no longer Lily Potter's eyes; they were the eyes of Death.

He didn't realize how long he'd been in the dressing room until a knock erupted his thoughts.

Harry jolted out of his thoughts, realizing he hadn't even put on a single item of clothing yet.

He opened the door, expecting to find a very impatient Dark Lord, but was instead greeted with the small form of his youngest son.

Saiph darted into the bathroom before Harry could even think about asking him to leave, closing the door behind him. "We were wondering what you were doing in here." Saiph explained, smiling slightly. "Aster made a very inappropriate joke that made father mad, and Ceph said you were probably having an existential meltdown."

Harry choked on a laugh, trying to imagine the scenario of all of them making guesses as to what he was doing.

"And I thought you were probably just overwhelmed." Saiph finished, staring up at him with his uncanny green eyes.

Harry smiled wanly. "Probably a little bit of all of the above."

Saiph nodded. "It's a lot to take in, I guess." He plucked a few stray petals out of Harry's makeshift toga, gathering them up in his hand. "But I don't really think of you any differently, or anything."

"What do you mean?"

"Well, you're still my Mum." Saiph said, matter-of-fact. "You're still Harry no matter what."

It was an oversimplified explanation, but somehow it was exactly what Harry wanted to hear.

He laughed lightly. "Yeah. You're right."

Saiph smiled at him, holding out the pair of trousers. "You should probably change into these." He advised, wisely.

Harry smiled back. "You're just full of good advice today, aren't you?" He said drily, but took the pants nonetheless, moving into the actual washroom to change.

As he tugged the bedsheets off of him, he found his thoughts once again returning to the dream he'd had earlier. It hadn't felt like a dream at all when he'd woken up— too vivid to possibly be his own imagination. But now that some time had passed, that living fear had simmered into a low grade anxiety. He still didn't quite think it was his imagination, but it no longer felt as terrible as it had earlier. Still, he refused to merely brush it off so callously. What if it  _wasn't_ a dream? What if that was truly a vision of the future? A vision without Saiph and his siblings, without Harry and Voldemort together?

Harry swallowed with difficulty, trousers clutched tightly in his hands.

"Hey, Sai," he called from behind the door.

"Uh-huh?" His young son replied in turn.

Harry hesitated for a moment. "Do you…" He bit his lip harshly. "Do you know Fred?"

"...Fred?" Saiph repeated, blankly.

"Fred— Fred Weasley." He added.

There was a long, daming moment. Harry felt his stomach drop.

And then; "Oh! You mean Uncle Fred?"

Harry almost fell to the floor in relief. "Yeah, that one. He has a twin too."

"Uncle George, yeah." Saiph said, amused. "I know that."

Harry could have collapsed in happiness. "What about— what about Lupin, do you know him?"

Saiph made a noncommittal noise.

He probably didn't know the man as Professor Lupin, of course. Harry thought quickly. "Err— Remus Lupin? And, and Tonks? Or, I guess it would be Nymphadora—

"You mean Teddy's parents?" Saiph clarified. "Well yeah, I know them. Teddy and Victorie  _dated_ for a while, isn't that so gross? Auntie Tonks thought it was hilarious, but Uncle Bill definitely didn't find it funny."

Harry had no idea who Victorie was, but he couldn't help but smile at the name. Teddy, right. That had been the name of Lupin and Tonks's son, if he recalled correctly. He had been nothing but a newborn last Harry had heard of him; he didn't think the idea of Teddy dating a girl gross at all. If anything, it was wonderful.

"I think that's great," Harry said, quietly, more to himself than to Saiph.

Saiph must have heard him though, because he made a disgruntled noise. Harry couldn't help but laugh, it was so cute. Saiph was only eleven after all; he probably thought girl's still had cooties. Still, it was so heartwarming to hear about a future that  _didn't_ end in war and death. The future Saiph came from featured an entirely living Weasley clan bustling at the seams with little cousins, a Harry and Voldemort that actually listened to each other (sometimes) and worked together to solve problems, and a wizarding world that was finally starting to make progress towards becoming a unified society.

Sure, it wasn't perfect. Harry and Voldemort clearly had quite a few personal issues that needed to be solved together, Harry still didn't know how he felt about being, well, whatever he was, and true equality would forever be a difficult goal to strive to, but there was still so much good to see.

It was the same decision he'd ruminated on often these last few days, and the same one he'd come to the day he collapsed. He  _wanted_ to try and make this work between him and Voldemort. They managed it somehow in Saiph's timeline— who's to say they couldn't do the same now?

"Uh, Harry?"

Harry was wrenched out of his thoughts by the tentative voice. "Yes, Sai?"

"... Are you done yet?" He asked, curious.

Harry laughed uneasily, hastily pulling up the trousers and reaching for the folded shirt. "Just a minute!" He assured.

Sai laughed. "Okay, well, don't take too long. I'm a little worried about leaving the twins alone with father for too long."

Harry chuckled weakly, seeing impending doom in his near future. "Good point, Sai. We should probably rescue him, huh?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Midnight Joke / 真夜中のジョーク
> 
> by Takako Mamiya > yet another City Pop classic from 198


End file.
